Bizarre Tales of A Teenage Genius
by fro-baby
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. John/Sherlock boarding school AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter the First**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends.<p>

At least, that's what Lestrade tells John when he inquires about the tall, pale boy lurking in one corner of the common room. And when he looks closer, John can't exactly say that he's surprised. There's something haughty about that long, angular face, a sort of coldness in his pale eyes that seems almost calculated to frighten people off.

"Bit bonkers, if you ask me," Lestrade says, jerking his head at the angular form across the room. "Bloody genius in his classes, but I don't think I've ever heard him say a word otherwise."

Frowning, John looks back at the boy and decides that lurking isn't quite the right word. It implies something furtive and shy, and this Sherlock kid is much too proud for that. He's slumped against the wall, hands in the pockets of his rumpled sweater, chin tilted up slightly, surveying the room like he owns the place. John can't decide if he's disgusted or fascinated.

And then Sherlock looks over at him, and the movement is so sharp and sudden that John finds himself wondering if the guy can read minds. It almost seems plausible for a moment or two, when John's eyes are locked with those grayish-bluish-greenish ones and he feels himself being nailed to the floor with every blink. It's really sort of mesmerizing.

John's so caught up in this little staring contest that he almost doesn't notice the slow smile that hoists up one corner of the boy's wide, pale mouth. It would probably be slightly less disturbing if the (theoretically) friendly expression extended into his eyes, but they remain an icy wasteland. Shaken, John looks away, the muscles in his shoulders contracting of an accord that is entirely their own. It's downright uncanny, that's what it is.

"Come on." Lestrade motions him towards the door, completely oblivious to everything that has just happened. "I'll show you the refectory."

"L'right," John grunts, daring one last, quick look over his shoulder. The mysterious Sherlock has looked away, resuming his casual surveillance of the room. That disturbing little smirk has disappeared, presumably back to the lightless, slimy cave it inhabits whenever not in use. Shaking his head, John turns away and follows Lestrade out the door. But as he goes, he can swear to god that he feels that cold, penetrating gaze resting on the back of his neck. It takes every fiber of self-control in his entire being to keep himself from looking back.

The sun has set by the time they make it back to the dorm, and John can't remember ever being this tired before. Everything's new and vast and intimidating, and he's barely wrapped his head around the fact that he actually got _accepted_ to St. Donat's School for Boys, let alone the fact that he's going to school in a bloody _castle_ in bloody _Wales_. Not to mention that he's still not entirely sure that he belongs here, everything is freezing, and there's a goddamn line for the bathroom.

Far, _far_ later than he would have liked, John finally collapses into bed, every muscle in his body simultaneously humming with nerves and gelatinous with fatigue. Next time, he makes a mental note, he really should wear those proper flannel pajama pants to bed. These flimsy little boxer shorts are wholly insufficient protection against the early September draughts that slip past the windows. His London suburb-bred heart grows a bit faint at the thought of its first winter in this draughty seaside castle.

"Alright there?"

John looks up from beneath his blanket mound to see Lestrade glancing over at him, amusement written all over his face in the expressive equivalent of 36 point font.

"Fine," John mutters, coughing awkwardly and gently pushing his top blanket to one side.

"It's alright," Lestrade grins, not unkindly. "The chill takes a bit of getting used to, I know. I sent home for loads and loads of wool socks my first year."

"Brought mine with me," John says with a dry smile, and Lestrade chuckles. John wonders vaguely if his roommate actually has a first name; he introduced himself solely by his last name, and that seems to be what everyone calls him. A bit strange, to be sure, but what does John know from strange anymore? He's living in a castle, for god's sake.

"Best get some sleep," Lestrade counsels, leaning over to fiddle with the alarm clock on his bedside table. "Classes start tomorrow, so we're up at six."

"Lord," John groans, letting his exhausted head flop backwards onto his pillow. That foreign gray lump had seemed alarmingly stiff and uncomfortable this morning, but after a long day of exploring his new campus it's the most inviting thing in the world. His eyes are already drifting shut by the time Lestrade shuts off the light.

Moments later, his eyelids snap open like rat traps. Perhaps it's the strange, elastic quality that time takes on when one is falling asleep, or maybe there really were only a few seconds between when the lights went out and when the music started.

It's quite faint, drifting through the wall beside John's bed like a ghost in a terrible old horror movie. At first, he wonders if he's dreaming; he sits up on his elbows and rubs at his eyes, just to make sure. This can't be a dream—everything is entirely as it was just moments ago, except for that damn music. Perplexed, he glances over at Lestrade, who has miraculously transformed into a blanket-covered lump with a pillow for a head.

"Lestrade?" John whispers, slightly embarrassed at the frightened-child quality his voice has suddenly acquired.

"Mmph?" the pillow-head grunts.

"D'you hear that?" It's getting louder; loud enough for John to discern the melancholy strains of a lone violin.

A sigh hisses out from under the blankets across the room, and then the pillow-head slides to one side to reveal Lestrade's exasperated face.

"Yeah, I hear it." He, too, pushes himself up onto his elbows and meets John's confused eyes. "S'the nutter next door practicing his violin."

"Practicing violin?" John repeats incredulously. "At this hour?"

"Yeah," Lestrade sighs. "Does it every bleedin' year."

"Every year? Why haven't his roommates murdered him yet?"

"Doesn't have any." Lestrade flops face-down onto his mattress. "He's had the psycho single for years now."

"Fine, why haven't the people in the rooms next to him murdered him?" John persists, completely confounded by Lestrade's apathetic reaction.

Sighing, Lestrade turns his head to look at John through the darkness, cheek pressed against his mattress. "You remember that bloke I pointed out in the common room today?"

Automatically, John nods. "Yeah, Sherlock Holmes. The creepy one. I remember."

"Yeah." Lestrade smiles grimly. "Well, that's why."

John blinks. "You mean…_that_," he jerks his head at the wall emitting the insistent violin music, "Is Sherlock Holmes?"

"I do," Lestrade nods. "And that, young John, is why I recommend that you learn to fall asleep to violin music."

"I—what? That's ridiculous!" John huffs. "I'll never get to sleep with all this bloody racket."

"Well, then, you'll just have to make do with less rest," Lestrade shrugs. "Don't think you can wait him out; the guy doesn't sleep."

"This is insane," John mutters, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. "I'm not putting up with this."

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," Lestrade cautions as John stands up and pulls on the socks he abandoned beside his bed.

"What's the big deal?" John asks, voice muffled by the thick jumper he's pulling on over his head. "I'll just ask him to stop. He can't be that unreasonable."

"Oh-kay," Lestrade chuckles, his voice clearly suggesting that John has no idea what he's getting into. "Do what you like, mate."

"Be back in a minute," John tells him firmly, ignoring the worrying note of amusement in his roommate's voice. Opening the door to their room without a sound, he slips out into the dark hallway and closes the door behind him just as silently.

The violin music dances eerily about his head as he pads down the icy stone floor to the so-called 'psycho single' next door. Out here, all alone in the dark, he doesn't feel quite so brave and indignant. Maybe it's not the greatest of ideas to burst into the room of the weirdest bloke in the school in the middle of the night and chew him out for playing the violin. Maybe he really is as idiotic and naïve as Lestrade seems to think.

By the time he reaches the door, his stomach is twisting itself into knots of anxiety. But then he sees the light under the door and hears the sawing of the violin and thinks, _What right does he have? What bloody right does this weirdo have to keep me up all night playing his stupid bloody violin? Why should I be afraid of him?_

Teeth gritted, jaw pushed forward resolutely, he lifts one hand to knock—and nearly jumps out of his skin as a voice from within calls, "The door's unlocked."

_Oh. Okay then._ The thought is surprisingly calm, as if he was entirely expecting to be telepathically recognized outside the door. Without so much as another thought, he turns the doorknob and enters the belly of the beast.

The room is…not what he expected. Although he's not entirely sure what he expected, he supposes it involved heaps of books, clothing, and dismembered body parts. Instead, it's small, plain, and inhumanly tidy. John and Lestrade arrived just this morning, and their room is already halfway gone to pigsty; on the other hand, Creepy Holmes (as John has now taken to referring to him within the safety of his own head) has apparently had this room for years and there's not a speck of dust to be found anywhere. Books are neatly tucked into shelves, the bed is made with military preciseness, and there's a chest of drawers that John would bet a million pounds contains expensive, carefully folded clothes (possibly sorted by color).

This person, John decides firmly, is fucked up in the head. This person, he realizes with a faint start, is also standing in the center of his freakishly clean room, wearing nothing but a tee shirt, a pair of boxers, and a violin.

"Can I help you?" Creepy Holmes inquires, letting his probably-extremely-valuable violin dangle carelessly at his side. John tries to stare at it and not the pale, thin legs that seem to go on for miles and miles.

"Um." He clears his throat, trying to find a way to look Holmes in the face without getting pinned down by those stone-grey eyes again. Failing at that, he matches the steely gaze and says, "Could you please keep it down? I don't know about you, but I've got to get up at six and go to class tomorrow, and Vivaldi in the middle of the night is not exactly restful."

"You recognized it," Holmes says, something in his voice that's not quite surprise but probably should be. "A little rugby thug like you recognized a Vivaldi concerto."

"I don't play rugby," John replies coldly, another reason to dislike this boy joining his ever-growing list. _Acts like he owns everything and everyone, stares at me creepily, plays violin at intolerable hours, and…judges me for how I look._ Over the years he's gotten his fill of being assumed stupid for his short, blond hair and thickset build.

"Football, then." Holmes waves his bow through the hair impatiently, as though he hasn't the time to debate the minutiae of sports. "One of those types with permanent grass stains on their knees."

John can feel his temperature rising by the second. _Who the hell does he think he is?_

"Look," he snaps, the effort maintaining a civil tone requires nearly breaking his voice in two, "I play football _and_ recognize Vivaldi concertos. I'm sorry if that doesn't fit into your narrow little world view, but that's how I am. Now, if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate it if you'd put your violin away and let the rest of us get some sleep."

There's a pause, and to his surprise John can feel his heartbeat thudding violently in his throat. He feels as if he should be trembling with pent-up rage (or possibly terror), but his hands are perfectly steady.

Holmes blinks at him for a good minute before murmuring, "Of course." Stowing violin and bow in the case lying open on the bed, he moves slowly and deliberately but with an inherent grace that stocky John can't help but envy. Even through his irritation, he finds himself fascinated by the long, pale fingers that deftly close the silver clasps on the elegant case. When Holmes turns around, he catches him staring. John feels the tips of his ears begin to go red.

"Thanks," he says tersely, and turns to go.

He's halfway out the door by the time he hears it, and it's so soft that he might just be able to convince himself that he's imagined it. But part of him knows that he heard creepy Sherlock Holmes whisper, "Good night."

Shutting the door firmly behind him, he hurries across the cold floor of the hallway and into his room, not daring to pause for breath until he's safe in the warm embrace of his bed.

He's barely pulled the blankets up around his ears when Lestrade says, "He stopped."

"Yes," John agrees curtly, hoping that his roommate will not always be this thick this late at night. Then again, he reminds himself, not everyone can be as interesting as Sherlock Holmes. His ears growing still hotter, he immediately tries to forget that thought.

"_You_ made him stop," Lestrade continues incredulously. Unspoken is: "You, a quiet nobody fresh out of state school, made him stop."

"It's amazing what you can get if you ask nicely," John says brusquely and rolls over to face the wall. Lestrade doesn't ask any more questions, and John quickly drops off to sleep.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> *waves shyly* So this is my very first Sherlock fic. Not entirely sure what I'm doing but having a heck of a lot of fun with it anyway. Thanks so much for reading and leave me some lovely notes if you please! I'd love to know what you think. Next chapter should be up fairly soonish. Catch you later, beautiful people! xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter the Second**

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><p>John doesn't see Creepy Holmes again for a good week or so after that. Well, that's not strictly true; he <em>sees<em> him, generally out of the corner of his eye as a flurry of dark curls disappearing around a corner or through a door, but they don't talk again, don't even lock eyes like they did for those long minutes in the common room. In some bizarre way, John finds himself missing…not missing Holmes, that would be weird, but missing…the strangeness of Holmes, the bizarre puzzle of interacting with him.

Because as odd and new as the castle is, the people here are really very, desperately, boringly normal. His days fall into a steady rhythm of class, food, football practice, homework, and sleep. He doesn't hear the violin at night again, but finds himself half-listening for the faint strains of a Vivaldi concerto drifting through his wall. He tells himself he's being stupid, but somewhere deep down he yearns for that mournful timbre to keep him company when he wakes up in the middle of the night from another nightmare.

But Holmes keeps his distance, until one night when he pauses next to John's table at dinner. Glancing up from his plate, John regards the lanky figure towering over him with interest that he can't quite hide.

"You don't usually eat alone," Holmes says abruptly, and is that…awkwardness in his voice? John should have guessed that the boy who plays violin at midnight in his psycho single isn't exactly well socialized, but Holmes looking uncomfortable still comes as a shock.

"Yeah, well, Lestrade's away at a rugby game tonight," John shrugs while wondering why he feels the need to explain this to the boy he's talked to once. Truth is, he's been dreading a long, solitary night of schoolwork; the mountains of work at this place don't leave much time for socializing, and he doesn't really have friends apart from his roommate.

"And you don't have anyone else to sit with," Holmes concludes, echoing John's thoughts uncannily. With his usual catlike grace, Holmes slides into the rickety wooden chair opposite John before he can so much as open his mouth to protest. A hot flash of irritation roars into John's ears, along with the thought: _Who the hell does he think he is?_

"Did I _say_ you could sit down?" John snaps. Surprise flickers through Holmes' pale eyes, and those thick, dark eyebrows rise to someplace between shock and disapproval. Instantly, John is mortified.

"I wasn't aware that you were the owner of this chair," Holmes says coldly, standing up stiffly. "Do excuse my ignorance."

John's first instinct is to crumble under that icy gaze and sink down in his chair in humiliation. But something inside him refuses to back down, refuses to squirm under the microscope, refuses to do exactly what he's sure Holmes is used to. Instead, he returns the boy's cold stare steadily, his face settling easily into a mask of calm.

"I'd just appreciate a little common courtesy," he shrugs, part of him wondering why on earth he's asking the midnight violinist to be considerate. "If that's below you then I guess you can go find somewhere else to sit."

He can feel Holmes' eyes on him as he turns back to his dinner, but he refuses to look up. It is, he decides, of the utmost importance not to show fear. There's something snake-like about Holmes—a brilliant intellect with razor-sharp fangs coiled up and ready to strike at the slightest show of weakness. John will not give him that opportunity.

"Well," Holmes says softly, and John looks up to see long fingers curled around the top of the chair, "In that case…may I?"

"Sure," John shrugs, and Holmes pulls the chair back out and sits down. Actually, sitting isn't quite the right word; what he really does is drape himself over the chair, one arm slung over the back and legs splayed out in front of him. And suddenly, the mood changes, the tension dissipating into the air like steam. Holmes has gone from a snake tensed to strike to a cat lounging in the sun, and John can feel the muscles in his shoulders start to unclench.

"So," Holmes says suddenly, watching John closely from under his thick mop of hair, "Haven't made a lot of friends on the football team, then?"

John nearly chokes on his spinach. "I—what?"

The triumph that flashes through Holmes' eyes makes John instantly furious with himself. So much for not showing fear. "I knew that you played football from the first time we spoke," Holmes drawls, head dropping back to stare at the ceiling. "It follows naturally that you would go out for the team. Really, John, do try to keep up."

Trying feebly to regain his composure, John hides in a long gulp of water. He feels the icy blue eyes fixed on him and starts to wonder if this is some sort of test. If it is, he's not doing terribly well. There's something dreadfully startling about Holmes. A mere conversation is like walking up the stairs in the dark; John never knows whether or not there's going to be a solid step under his foot, a normal response that he can use to climb further into the conversation.

"I'm not an expert in these matters," Holmes begins nonchalantly, "But perhaps if you spent less time in your room talking to your girlfriend you'd make more friends."

John is suddenly very, very glad that he's already swallowed that mouthful of water. As it is, he does his very best to choke on air. Those solid steps of conversation have been yanked away, sending him plummeting through thin air with his heart in his mouth. For some bizarre reason, he feels his ears go very, very hot.

"Alright," he half-snarls, irritated by the stupid smug expression on Holmes' stupid face. "How on _earth_ can you know about Sarah?"

Before Holmes even opens his mouth, John knows that he's about to feel very, very stupid. He's not supposed to show fear, he's not supposed to take the bait and let Holmes make a fool out of him. But he's feeling inexplicably thrown off and flustered, and the words just plop out like some kind of dreadful verbal diarrhea.

"The walls in the dorms are thin," Holmes shrugs. "I can hear you talking to her. Got a webcam, have you?"

His prediction was correct: John does, in fact, feel like a complete idiot. Or possibly like some sort of creature of sub-human intelligence. A bear, perhaps. Or maybe a troll. Yes, that seems right; next to tall, brilliant Sherlock Holmes, John is a small, bumbling troll. A small, bumbling troll with a bright red face and a fork clenched so tightly in one hand that he might be breaking the skin.

Replacing the fork on his plate with the utmost care, John doesn't look at Holmes as he speaks. "Yeah, I've got a webcam. Sarah's my girlfriend from back home. We talk on Skype every night." _Regain composure. Take deep breaths. Don't let him see you squirm. Don't let the bastard win._

Nodding, Holmes leans his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. Those pale eyes go off somewhere beyond John's left shoulder, as though closely examining the blush-colored dust motes that float in the light of the setting sun. Watching him from under his brows, John seriously considers hating the guy. It would be pathetically easy; Holmes' creepy omniscience certainly hasn't won him many friends. John can't remember ever seeing the lanky boy even talking to anyone else, let alone engaging in the kind of camaraderie that would be considered 'hanging out.' It would be all too easy to go with the crowd and avoid Holmes like the plague. Life would certainly be a lot simpler that way.

Then again, Sherlock Holmes is by far the most interesting person John has met at this school. True, he's also the strangest, creepiest, rudest, and most obnoxious, but John supposes that's all part of the appeal. He certainly doesn't have much interest in spending all his time with clean-cut young men with short hair and well-pressed shirts. Nor is he terribly fascinated by his teammates, who (although perfectly nice blokes) don't really converse in words longer than 'chicken' and are basically plant life when compared with Sherlock Holmes.

Abruptly, Holmes breaks John out of his reverie. "What are your plans for tonight?"

"Um." John blinks, caught off guard. "Well, I've got some reading left to do for English, and then I was going to talk to Sarah for…a bit…" He falters under Holmes' unimpressed gaze. That troll feeling comes back again, and John has to struggle to push it to the back of his mind.

"I've got a project I'm working on," Holmes announces out of the blue, "And I require some assistance. Nothing terribly strenuous, you understand, but I believe that you are just the man for the job."

Once again, John finds himself floundering through thin air. A million excuses zip through his head: he'll have a quiz on tonight's reading tomorrow, he really ought to study some more for that maths test, and what on earth is he going to say to Sarah?

Strangely, all those words of reason haven't the slightest effect on his mouth; his voice, a bit strange and foreign-sounding, merely says: "Alright."

Holmes starts to get up, but pauses to fix John with a thoughtful look.

"The Great Gatsby, right?"

_What?_ is John's first thought, quickly followed by: _English homework. Right. That thing that I was worrying about ten seconds ago. _He's getting worryingly distracted by that intense blue gaze.

"Yeah," he grunts, standing and picking up his tray.

"I'll tell you what happens," Holmes assures him with a quick, rakish smile. John would certainly never say that he's dazzled, but the lightning effect of that grin _is_ rather stunning. _So the man can actually smile_, he thinks hazily.

"Leave the tray, John," Holmes orders brusquely, the smile completely vanished along with any hint that it was ever there. "Let's go."

"Hang on a second," John says quickly, nearly jogging to catch up with Holmes' long strides. "How d'you even know my name?"

A ghost of that roguish smile appears around the corners of Holmes' mouth as he leads the way out of the refectory.

"Don't be dull, John," he says coolly. "Come along."

Rolling his eyes, John hurries along beside the pale boy as they burst out into the chilly twilight of the castle courtyard. _The bastard really does know everything,_ he thinks with a shake of his head.

"Oh, and by the way," Holmes adds, glancing at John out of the corners of his eyes, "You can call me Sherlock."

A surprised chuckle finds its way out of John's mouth before he can fully cover up his shock. _Definitely a mind reader, then,_ he thinks firmly_._ As he follows a boy he met a week ago towards an unknown location so that he can help with some mysterious 'project' (which, although "not strenuous," could quite possibly involve bodily injury or emotional scarring), all he can think is: _Well, this should be interesting._

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Beep boop, here's chapter two! John's head is such a funny little place; certainly not boring! Do feel free to leave me reviews, I'd love to know what everybody thinks so far. xxx


	3. Chapter 3

"So, um." Glancing at Holmes—er, _Sherlock_ out of the corners of his eyes, John wonders what exactly one is supposed to talk about with a bizarre, possibly (as far as he can tell) bipolar genius while out on a mysterious adventure. It's not like he's had a lot of experience in these matters.

Regardless, he decides to start with the basics. "Where are we going?"

The only response he gets is a grunt and an impatient sort of hand gesture, like his question is a gnat that Sherlock can bat away with his fingers.

"Okay, um." John frowns, wondering if he should try a different question. But that would be giving in, which is exactly what he's decided he's not going to do. "That's not really an answer, Sherlock. Where are we going and why?"

Abruptly, Sherlock stops walking.

"We're here."

John turns his baffled gaze from him to their surroundings. They're standing in a sort of courtyard, flanked by buildings on three sides. Two of those sides are taken up by greenhouses, low-slung affairs of glass held together by intricate cast iron. But on the left side of the courtyard is a dormitory. It's the newest addition to the school, John remembers Lestrade explaining, although built of the same Gothic stone as the main castle. The castle dormitories couldn't cope with the influx of new students, Lestrade said, so a few years back they built a new building to house the younger forms. The center of the courtyard is a rocky sort of garden, with a few benches and flowerbeds flanked by bristly old trees.

"_Here?_ This is the north quad." John squints up at the dormitory, shading his eyes from the orange sunlight reflecting off the windows.

"Your spatial recognition is indeed magnificent," Sherlock says with his peculiar sort of deadpan, staring intently at one of the benches in the courtyard garden. "We are also currently on Earth."

"Oh, shut up," John laughs, cuffing the taller boy lightly on the arm. "You know what I meant."

The look Sherlock gives him instantly wipes the smile off his face. It's not a glare, by any means, but more a stare of…confusion? Fascination? Whatever it is, Sherlock's looking at John like he's never seen him before. He looks at his own arm, then down at John's hand, and then back to the shorter boy's face, which suddenly feels quite warm.

"Sorry," John mutters, stepping away and raising his hands defensively. "Didn't realize I wasn't worthy of touching you."

Those dark brows draw together for a moment, and John tries to ignore the creeping sensation of being an alien species under a microscope. Then the eyebrows lift, the forehead smoothes, the clouds part, and the scrutinizing look disappears. Looking a fraction as embarrassed as John feels, Sherlock avoids John's curious gaze and returns to staring at the trees up ahead.

"Ah, no…my apologies," the pale boy says haltingly, digging his hands into his pockets. "You are…free to touch me. When you wish."

"Right, um, thanks," John nods brusquely, also keeping his eyes fixed on the trees. "Good to know, I suppose." He clears his throat, deciding that now would be a _really_ great time to change the subject. "So. Why're we here again?"

Sherlock jumps slightly, like he's been sleepwalking and John just woke him up. Tossing his unruly curls out of his eyes, he strolls towards the little courtyard garden, looking from one of the benches to the windows of the dormitory. Sighing under his breath, John hurries after him. He's really starting to wish he had some sort of warning about the movements of Sherlock Holmes; all this sudden starting and stopping is getting quite tiresome.

"Have you heard about that biology test that disappeared?" Sherlock asks in his usual inscrutable fashion, staring intently at that one bench as they approach it.

"Um, yeah," John replies in _his_ usual confused, troll-like fashion, scuttling along beside him. "Got lost, didn't it?"

"Mm," Sherlock grunts, clearly lost once more amidst the endless caverns of his brain. They've reached the bench that seems to be the object of his fascination, but now he's ignoring it; instead, he's rummaging furiously through the flowerbeds around it, crouched amidst the shrubbery like some kind of foraging rabbit. Watching him, John finds himself growing increasingly frustrated. He didn't come all this way to be ignored while Sherlock roots through some bleeding azaleas. Briefly, he considers leaving, but that would be too easy. For what feels like the thousandth time tonight, he wonders if this is all a test.

"Sherlock," he calls. No response. He takes a step closer to the boy's cardigan-clad back. "Sherlock." When that doesn't get even the slightest reaction, he lets an irritated sigh slip past his lips. Jutting out his chin, he strides past the bench and clambers into the flowerbed to stand right in front of Sherlock's squatting form. The blue eyes peer at John's shoes, then find their way up his legs and torso to blink slowly at his face.

"Sherlock, you asked for my help, so I came," John says firmly. "But I will not stand here and stare at you while you do some brilliant thing that I don't understand. It may make you feel clever, but it's a waste of my time. So tell me what's going on, or I'm going back to my room to do my homework."

Sherlock stares up at him for a good thirty seconds, his expression completely unreadable. John would never admit it, but in the back of his mind he's praying, _praying_ that Sherlock will let him help.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightens up, a ghost of a smile flitting about his lips as he says, "Right." In one fluid movement, he sits down on the bench, draws his knees up to his chin, and motions for John to sit on one of the many mossy boulders littering the garden.

John sits, and Sherlock says, "About that biology test, then."

John raises an eyebrow. "Is that what this is about? I thought the professor just forgot his satchel on a train or something."

"That's what he told his class." Sherlock shakes his head firmly. "No, it was stolen."

"So…he lied to his students so they wouldn't think anything was wrong?"

"Precisely." Absentmindedly, Sherlock starts winding a loose curl around one long, pale finger. John has to struggle to tear his eyes away from it and actually force his brain to work for a second. How does Sherlock even know any of this?

"Hang on…have you been eavesdropping on teachers?" John demands, not knowing whether to be scandalized or impressed.

"Mmm…sort of," Sherlock shrugs, doing an _almost_ perfect job of being uninterested. "If you stand in the second stall from the end in the third floor bathroom you can hear their faculty meetings quite clearly. Even more clearly if you've got a recorder that you can use to clean up and amplify the sound afterwards."

Okay, definitely impressed.

"Sherlock!" The word is half lost in an irrepressible laugh, and John can't quite fight off the awed smile spreading across his face. "Why on earth would you do that?"

The thin boy shrugs again, inspecting a grimy patch on his knee. "I like to keep an eye on them. It's good to have a bit of warning before they're about to do anything stupid."

"Just so we're clear," John interrupts, still half-grinning for some ridiculous reason, "These _are_ our teachers you're talking about, right?"

The look Sherlock fixes him with is decidedly unamused. "I know it's all a bit beyond you, but really _do_ try and keep up, John. Yes, they're our teachers. And they all seem to like _you_ a lot, god knows why."

"No accounting for taste, I s'pose," John says flippantly, leaning back on his boulder. "I'd bet that _you're_ a fairly regular topic of conversation at these meetings."

"Whatever would give you that idea," Sherlock says dryly, and John can't quite tell whether it's a joke or not. He's pretty sure it is; Sherlock seems to have a pretty good idea of just what a bad boy he is. Even seems to revel in it sometimes.

"_Anyway,_" Sherlock huffs, steepling his fingers in front of his face professorially. "Apart from the usual inane chatter about how to keep first-years from flunking out of Latin, I occasionally glean something useful."

"Do you really?" John inquires playfully. If Sherlock wants to tell him a story, he'll play along for the moment.

"Though, of course," Sherlock adds thoughtfully, "Being me, I generally know more than the teachers themselves."

_Modest_, John thinks, but merely raises his eyebrows and waits for Sherlock to go on.

"Just for example," Sherlock continues, "Our brilliant faculty is unaware that whoever snatched that test is now selling the answers for fifteen quid a pop."

If possible, John's eyebrows rise even further up his forehead. "_Selling_ them? Who'd be desperate enough to pay fifteen quid for a test answer? Seems like studying's a lot cheaper."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock says grimly, folding his hands behind his head. "Entitled upper-class boys aren't over fond of schoolwork, and the rich allowances their daddies send them each month make them particularly susceptible to enterprising cheaters."

"Guess so." John pauses for a moment, chewing his lower lip and mulling everything over. Once again, he gets that faint _hold on…_ sensation in the back of his head.

"So if the teachers don't even know about this, how did _you_ find out?"

Here, Sherlock allows himself a smug little smile. "However bountiful our cherished founts of wisdom may be, they are rather clueless when it comes to the internet. Especially when it comes to the illicit message boards that our test thief uses to contact prospective buyers."

John is not at all awed. Not in the slightest. His mouth has certainly not dropped open, and he is most definitely not goggling at Sherlock Holmes like he's the eighth wonder of the world.

He is clearly excellent at hiding his lack of awe, because the eighth wonder says, "Don't look so shocked, John. I think it is vitally important to have one's finger on the pulse of school life, which by definition involves monitoring both the academic and the criminal."

"You're a bloody madman," John breathes before he can stop himself. "How do you have time for schoolwork?"

"Oh, schoolwork," Sherlock scoffs. "A silly, pointless exercise in wasting valuable time. I tend not to bother with it whenever I can avoid it."

John opens his mouth to ask why (or, more accurately, _how in the world_) Sherlock is still enrolled at this prominent school, but then it occurs to him that the boy most likely single-handedly raises the test scores of the entire student body. Not to mention that, judging by the contents of Sherlock's room, his family has more money than God.

"Alright, so," John says, trying rather weakly to regain his businesslike attitude, "What's the north quad got to do with the missing test?"

Sherlock shoots him a look that he can't quite decipher but sort of hopes is one of approval. Honestly, he can never tell.

"This is where the satchel containing the test disappeared," Sherlock explains, getting to his feet. "The professor left it on this bench-" he points to the seat he has just vacated, "-And stepped into this group of trees-" he strides across the garden path and into a small copse of wiry, wind-battered trees, "-To inspect a particularly fascinating specimen of beetle. When he returned from his examination, the satchel had disappeared."

Sherlock returns from the shady grove and waves at the empty bench like a magician who has just pulled off a particularly magnificent trick. "Spotted, snatched up, and stolen in just under ten minutes."

"Right, okay," John says slowly, sliding off his boulder and moving to stand in front of the bench. "So…someone was following him?"

"Doubtful." Sherlock lopes over to stand beside John. "It's an enormous open expanse from the main castle to the north quad. Following someone all that way is far too risky."

"So…he was waiting for him?" John suggests, wondering vaguely if he's doing more to solve the case or make Sherlock feel good about himself.

"Also unlikely." Sherlock shakes his head, tracing the bench's cast iron armrest with one long finger. "Stopping here was completely outside of the professor's usual routine. He came over to check on a private experiment he's been running in one of the greenhouses, spotted this intriguing insect of his, and dropped everything to examine it. Besides, there aren't many places to hide here, even from a short-sighted professor who's well on his way to senility. No, John, I'd say that this was a crime of opportunity."

"So that means," John murmurs, turning to look at the stone building towering overhead, "That someone in one of those dorm rooms must have looked out his window, seen the satchel, and dashed down here to nab it."

"Precisely," Sherlock nods, giving John a look that is most definitely approving. John has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a self-satisfied little smile. He will not yearn desperately for Sherlock's approval like some lovesick puppy. Honestly, he could care less what the boy thinks of him.

"What time was the satchel taken, then?" John asks, definitely not in order to impress Sherlock. Certainly not. It's merely a necessary fact in the case.

"Around seven in the evening." Sherlock's gaze has grown even more appreciative, and John could swear that there's a tiny hint of a smile tugging at one corner of that wide mouth. Promptly, he decides that staring at Sherlock's mouth is not the best course of action and looks instead at the bench.

"Seven?" John repeats, still staring fixedly at the battered green garden ornament. "Who on earth is sitting in their dorm room at seven at night?"

He looks up to discover that all traces of approval have instantly vanished from Sherlock's expression, to be replaced with the usual half-irritated boredom.

"Oh, only every single first year," he drawls, and John feels his stomach shrivel up into a tiny ball of shame. What did he think he was playing at, pretending to actually be intelligent and useful? Clearly, it was horrifyingly stupid of him to imagine himself anything more than the stupid, bumbling troll that he really is.

"You wouldn't know," Sherlock continues, his voice softening slightly around the edges. John feels his eyes light up and instantly curses himself. He's _not supposed to care._ "You were never a first year here. They all have mandatory study time in their rooms from six to seven thirty."

"Great," John says grimly, turning to look up at the imposing stone building. "So we've got an entire dorm to choose our thief from."

"Not exactly," Sherlock says vaguely, ambling across the garden and kicking absently at a small boulder, "D'you think this is about satchel-sized?"

"Um." Blinking at the sudden change in topic, John moves to stand beside Sherlock and look down at his chosen rock. "Sure, yeah."

"Good. So do I." Satisfied, Sherlock bends down and starts to lift the boulder. His thin spine nearly folds in half as he clumsily heaves the heavy thing a few inches off the ground and starts to stagger sideways.

"Let me get that," John says hastily, trying to hide his wince at the painful awkwardness with which Sherlock attempts to perform manual labor. For his part, Sherlock does his best to mask his relief as he drops the boulder back to the ground.

"If you please," the thin boy shrugs as John easily hefts the rock into his arms. "Put it on the bench."

Obedient as ever, John straightens up, deposits the boulder on the bench, and steps back, dusting off his hands.

"So…now what? We see if anyone steals the rock?" John laughs extra loudly at his own joke to compensate for the fact that Sherlock hasn't even cracked a smile.

"No," he says shortly, turning and striding towards the looming dorm building. "We go inside," he points to the dorm's sun-gilded windows, "And figure out which windows the boulder can be seen through, thereby considerably narrowing our list of possible thieves from an entire dorm to just a few rooms."

"I…wow, okay," John manages intelligently, trotting to catch up with Sherlock's rapid pace. "Yeah, that…that sounds like a good idea."

"Of course it's good," Sherlock agrees with the faintest hint of a smirk. "It's mine, isn't it?"

In spite of himself, John laughs. Ordinarily, he would hate this kind of excessive self-confidence, but something about Sherlock's dry humor, coupled with that knife sharp intellect and (god, how is he even thinking this) those brooding good looks makes it bearable. Pleasant, even.

"Yeah, yeah, brilliant, you git," John chuckles, giving the taller boy a companionable smack on the arm. This time, Sherlock doesn't even flinch.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Dear god it's been ages. Thanks to a long and complicated series of technical difficulties, I couldn't upload this chapter until now. I hope people still remember what's happening...anyway, leave me comments if you please! 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter the Fourth**

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><p>John would not be lying if he said that he's spent more exciting evenings than this. Exciting and interesting, however, are not the same thing, and so while there are more thrilling things than watching Sherlock Holmes run up and down several flights of stairs, John doubts that many of them are quite as fascinating.<p>

A bit too fascinating altogether, John thinks uncomfortably as Sherlock's dark head disappears into the stairwell for the fourth time. Because despite his aversion to manual labor and his complete lack of interest in sports of any kind, Sherlock is surprisingly quick, and graceful to boot. He doesn't so much run as _surge_, every lanky limb and wiry curl leaping forwards towards his goal. Which, at the moment, is the lonely rock sitting atop the bench in the little garden in the center of the courtyard.

Glancing out the window, John watches Sherlock screech to a halt beside the aforementioned bench and steady himself against it to catch his breath. After a moment, he turns to walk back the way he came. Frowning, John looks down at his watch and shakes his head. For all his impossible whirlwind speed, it still took Sherlock four minutes to get from the second floor of the dorm to the bench in the grove. That means eight minutes round trip, plus the two or so minutes they've allowed for spotting the satchel and formulating a plan, as well as another two or three to actually steal the thing…making a total of thirteen minutes for the total crime. Impossible.

"Still too long," John informs the panting, slightly flushed Sherlock who's just emerged from the stairwell. "He can't be on this floor. The stairs take too long."

"Excellent," Sherlock huffs, still managing to crack an all-knowing smile through his breathlessness. Vaguely, John wonders if the boy could contrive to look smug while surrounded by extremely hungry crocodiles. He sort of thinks he could manage it.

"Sherlock," John says abruptly, shaking himself out of the quick bout of daydreaming he's just drifted into, "Are athletes exempt from first-year study hall?"

"Hm?" Sherlock blinks at him, and John's stomach suddenly surges with pride at knowing something that Sherlock Holmes doesn't.

"It just occurred to me," John shrugs. "Sports teams practice from five to seven. By the time they change clothes and get back to the dorm, first-years' study time is as good as over."

And John must be dreaming, because right now Sherlock is actually looking at him like he's just said something _helpful_, or possibly, dare he presume, _intelligent_. Surely at some point in the last few minutes he must have gotten hit over the head with something heavy, because the kind of admiration swelling in Sherlock's pale eyes could only be some sort of hallucination.

"Brilliant, John," Sherlock says quietly, and John blinks like a startled bat and tries not to smile. "Absolutely brilliant." An enormous grin breaks out across Sherlock's face as he turns away from John and starts back down the stairs. "So now we can eliminate the entire second floor," his voice floats up the dark stairwell, "And every athlete on the first. Well _done_, John."

"Thanks," John mumbles, smiling idiotically down at his shoes as he follows Sherlock down the stairs.

"Oh, we're getting close!" Sherlock exclaims gleefully, practically _capering_ out into the first floor hallway. "Now it's only a matter of getting into these rooms and seeing which of them have a clear view of that boulder."

"_Only_?" John echoes incredulously. "How, exactly, do you propose we do that? There must be people in half these rooms by now."

"We need some sort of ruse," Sherlock says thoughtfully, tugging absently on a stray curl. John sees those pale blue eyes go somewhere very far away and quietly resigns himself to another bout of waiting for Sherlock to think. Despite the speed with which the gears in that dark head must turn, Sherlock seems to lose himself in his own mind for rather prolonged periods.

This, it seems, is not one of them, for after just a few moments Sherlock straightens up with a faint noise of triumph.

"Cleaning duty!"

"Cleaning duty?" John repeats, and instantly curses himself for the idiotic tone his voice has taken. He really needs to stop being quite so _bewildered_.

"Like detention, but useful," Sherlock nods, hurrying off down the hallway in a businesslike fashion. "Essentially, school service as punishment. You have to clean hallways and classroom-"

"I know what cleaning duty is, Sherlock," John interrupts, more in the interest of efficiency than any kind of irritation. "But they don't make you go into people's _rooms_. I think cleaning first year dorm rooms counts as cruel and unusual punishment."

"John, no one would be surprised if I managed to incur such a penalty," Sherlock says with a faint, grim smile. "This may come as a shock to you, but I am not exactly popular with the faculty of this school."

"Really? Never would've guessed." John rolls his eyes. "Well, if you're sure no one will think it's odd…"

"Trust me," Sherlock chuckles, "No one will even ask."

He stops short in front of an innocuous door, which when opened proves to be a closet full of rubber gloves, buckets, mops, and other such cleaning supplies. As if it's the most natural thing in the world, Sherlock yanks on a pair of gloves and starts pulling out the necessary items for their disguise.

"Am I supposedly a troublemaker, too?" John asks with a half-smile as Sherlock struggles with the tangled strands of a mop. "Or are you going this one alone?"

"More efficient if we both do it," Sherlock grunts, finally succeeding in freeing the mop. "You take the first ten rooms, I'll take the other ten."

"Right, okay," John nods, glancing around the open closet door. After a pause, he says, "Um. Sherlock. Is it just me, or does that guy have no reason to be here?"

"Hm?" Frowning, Sherlock leans around John to look down the hallway at the furtive, stocky boy who's just come through the door.

"I think I know him," John murmurs. "Second-year, isn't he? I recognize him from football tryouts. Davis or something. He wasn't a bad kicker, but a bit too slow."

"In more than one way," Sherlock adds dryly. "That's Jeffrey Davies. He's a second-year alright, but he's been held back in almost all his classes. The school can't kick him out because his father's a big petrol man and on the board of trustees besides."

"So…he's taking biology for the second time," John says slowly, "Isn't the brightest bulb in the drawer, has a rich father, and looks sneaky enough to rob a bank?"

"Get in the closet," Sherlock hisses, and John turns round to stare at him in astonishment because what in god's name does that have to do with anything?

"Wha-" John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off in an urgent whisper.

"He hasn't seen us yet, and he must be here about the biology test. If we eavesdrop, we might be able to use him to find the test thief."

"In the closet?" John says dubiously, but by the stubborn set of Sherlock's jaw it's clear the taller boy has had enough. Without another word, he starts pushing John into the musty depths of the closet. Stumbling backwards like a drunkard, John can barely find his footing before Sherlock slips in with him and closes the door behind him. Everything goes dark except for the thin sliver of light where Sherlock's left the door ajar.

"Christ," John mutters under his breath, trying to shift slightly without knocking anything over. This closet was pretty full in the first place, and with the addition of two bodies it's become downright cramped. The darkness is uncomfortably warm and rather dusty, and it smells of dishwashing detergent.

"Quiet," Sherlock shushes him, peering through the crack in the door. From where he's standing (pressed up against a stack of buckets and sandwiched between Sherlock and several brooms), John can just make out Davies' dark figure making its nervous way down the hallway. With a jolt, John realizes that he's headed straight towards them, one hand lazily trailing along the wall mere yards from the door of their closet. And what on _earth_ will they say if they're found? Quite frankly, John decides, there is no good explanation for why the two of them are hiding in a cleaning cupboard. Eavesdropping sounds improbable and creepy besides, and the alternative…well. John feels his ears go slightly warm with the thought. The last way he wants to start off this school year is being caught in a closet with another bloke, even if they are just trying to find a stolen biology test. He could _never_ explain that one to Sarah.

John feels his heart leap into his throat as Davies moves ever closer, that dangling hand now less that a meter from the closet door. Any minute now, that door is going to be pulled open and they're going to be caught, and John will never, ever live this one down…and then Davies passes by. Hardly daring to believe his luck, John listens intently to the heavy footsteps as they move away from the door—and then stop. Slowly, they move backwards, and John practically bites through his lip as a hand closes around the edge of the open door.

And then the door shuts. Stunned, John blinks slowly in the sudden darkness as beside him Sherlock hisses a near-silent curse word. Squinting, John can just make out the boy's pale face pinching into a frown, nose pressed against the unyielding door. John's heart drops from his throat into the pit of his stomach as he realizes that there's no handle on the inside.

"Dammit," Sherlock breathes, pressing the side of his face to the door. "Now we can't see where he's going."

"Are you mad?" John hisses. "Who cares? We're locked in a cleaning cupboard, Sherlock!"

"Hush," Sherlock orders, and in spite of himself John does. There's fear and frustration boiling in the back of his throat, but he tries to push it all back down and listen to Davies' footsteps moving down the hallway. Suddenly, they stop, and John holds his breath as he hears a quick knock and the faint squeak of a door opening.

"I'm here about the test," Davies' low voice rumbles, and wow, Sherlock was right about him being thick. "The biology one. I brought my money and everythi-"

"What are you doing?" another voice half-yelps, cutting him off. "You can't come here! I don't keep it here, you idiot!"

"How do I get my answers, then?" Davies asks slowly, and even through the dark John can make out Sherlock's grin. This is just too easy.

"I _told_ you, idiot," the second voice snaps. "Wednesday morning at six o'clock, behind the refectory by the garbage bins. Do you want me to write that down for you or do you think you can manage to remember it this time?"

"No, I've got it," Davies replies amiably, completely ignoring the biting sarcasm of the question. "Thanks, mate."

"Get out of here," the voice snarls, and then there's the snap of the door closing. Humming some faint (and off-key, John notes with a wince) pop song to himself, Davies makes his slow way back up the hallway, past the cupboard and out the door. A few silent seconds pass before John allows himself to breathe easy again.

"This is brilliant!" Sherlock whispers, and John looks up to see his pale eyes shining triumphantly out of the darkness. "We'll wait for them behind the refectory Wednesday morning and catch them in the act-"

"No, Sherlock," John cuts him off firmly. "We'll tell the _teachers_ to wait for them behind the refectory Wednesday morning and _they'll_ catch them in the act." At Sherlock's expression, he corrects himself: "_I'll_ tell the teachers."

"You have no sense of adventure, John," Sherlock sniffs.

"I'm in this bloody closet with you, aren't I?" John replies with something that's almost a chuckle. "I think this is enough of an adventure for quite a while, thank you."

"Very well," Sherlock sighs. "Although I think you have entirely too much faith that our faculty will in fact succeed in catching the thief."

"They'll do it," John says with about twice as much confidence as he actually feels. "They're teachers. They know what they're doing."

At that, Sherlock actually laughs, his shoulders bumping into John's as they shake. "Ah, young John," he chuckles, shaking his head. "So naïve. But have it your way; we'll go to the headmaster just as soon as we…" He trails off, his laughter fading.

"Get out of this closet?" John supplies helpfully, unable to keep a trace of maliciousness out of his voice. "How, exactly, do you propose we do that?"

"There must be some sort of handle mechanism on this side," Sherlock mutters, jostling John slightly as he leans down to peer at the door. It is only then that John realizes just how cramped this closet is; his entire body is practically pressed up against Sherlock's, and it seems that the boy's every bony joint and gangly limb is tangled up with John's own. Matters are not helped by Sherlock bending over, which only serves to press John further back into the stack of buckets. Fighting to keep painful bucket handles from dislocating his spine, John somehow manages to lurch forwards and bury his face in Sherlock's ribcage with a muffled "_oomph_."

"John?" Sherlock murmurs, and this is very odd because John can actually feel his voice vibrating in his lungs. Everything feels sort of strange and surreal, from the soft cotton of Sherlock's cardigan to the faint scent of laundry detergent, cigarettes, and old paper that's radiating from Sherlock and wait a second, why is John's heart racing like this?

"John," Sherlock says again, and now his tone has gone from confusion to alarm. With another muffled grunt John struggles to straighten up and remove his face from Sherlock's side, but what he actually does is fall backwards and knock over the stack of buckets with a deafening clang.

When the immense clamor of metal against the stone floor subsides, John finds himself lying in a heap on the ground, a broom across his chest and a bucket under his head. He sees Sherlock's bemused face peering down at him and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get out a word the closet door opens.

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Muahaha, hope you all like this cliffhanger. Please stay lovely and leave me reviews!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter the Fifth**

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><p>Squinting in the sudden brightness, John looks up into the wide eyes of an extremely surprised first-year. Swallowing hard, he attempts desperately to come up with some kind of plausible excuse, but to no avail. Fortunately, the day is saved by Sherlock, who speaks up just before the silence becomes <em>completely<em> awkward.

"Oh, thank _god_," he exclaims, letting out an enormous sigh of relief. "I thought we were going to be in here all night. Thank you so much."

"What happened?" the first-year inquires, dark eyes going even wider.

"We were putting away our mops after cleaning duty," Sherlock explains, and John can't help but goggle up at him because he actually sounds like a normal person and not some kind of bizarre, sarcastic robot. "Some bastard came up behind us and shoved us in here. Sick kind of practical joke if you ask me."

"How long were you in there?" the first-year asks in astonishment as John gets stiffly to his feet.

"Oh, only a minute or two," Sherlock shrugs, making a show of looking over the first-year's shoulder at the empty hallway. "He must have run off, I don't see him."

"That's really awful," the first-year frowns, opening the door all the way so that John and Sherlock can stagger out of the cupboard. "People ought not to do things like that."

"Well, I'm glad you found us," John says with a rather strained smile, restacking the buckets and kicking the door shut behind him. "Thanks, uh…"

"Jim," the first-year supplies with a toothy grin. "Jim Moriarty."

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock nods. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, I know," Jim says airily. Sherlock frowns, a little taken aback, as the rather diminutive boy turns to John and says, "And you are…?"

"John Watson," John says, meeting Sherlock's eye. There is something rather strange about this kid, though he can't quite say what exactly it is. Whatever it may be, though, it's making him kind of nervous.

"Well, thanks again, mate," John says abruptly, forcing another smile at the dark-haired boy. "We should, erm, be getting back to our dorm. Uh, see you around, though."

"Sure," Jim nods, a faint smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. Exchanging another glance with Sherlock, John turns and starts off down the hallway rather more rapidly than he meant to. Sherlock matches his fast pace easily, and in a moment the two of them reach the door at the end of the corridor. Sherlock pushes past it quickly, but John can't help but glance over his shoulder. What he sees makes his shoulders tense: Jim Moriarty is still standing in the exact same spot, staring straight at him. That tiny smile is still lingering on his lips.

"John?" Sherlock calls from outside, and John turns away and steps out into the cool night with a slight shudder. The sun has fully set by now, and there's a sharp chill hanging in the air. It's a clear night, and overhead the velvet sky is pierced by thousands of stars.

"A rather successful investigation altogether, I think," Sherlock observes as they start off across campus towards the castle. "Aside from a few minor mishaps, that is."

"Mm, right," John yawns, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands. All of a sudden, he's completely exhausted; his watch is showing ten past ten, and a day of class, football practice, and mad mystery-solving has really taken it out of him. He remains silent as they reach the castle and climb the three flights of stairs to their dorm hallway. They've already missed curfew, but at the moment John couldn't care less. All that matters now is a nice, warm bed and a soft pillow to lay his head on…

"Come on, John," Sherlock whispers, glancing left and right for hall monitors before pulling open the door to his room. At John's perplexed stare, he adds, "I promised to tell you what happens in your reading."

_Reading…what reading? _John thinks sleepily, blinking at Sherlock, who sighs in exasperation.

"The Great Gatsby, John. Remember? What you were supposed to read for English tomorrow?"

"Right, yeah," John mumbles, following Sherlock into his room, which is still (surprise, surprise) freakishly tidy. "Your room is so clean," he observes thickly, and then frowns. He hadn't quite meant to say that aloud.

"My father was an army man," Sherlock explains shortly, a faint wrinkle creasing the space between his brows. "He brought us up to keep things neat. If my room was untidy…well. He was displeased." A faint shadow passes over his face as he turns away from John to straighten a stack of books on his bedside table.

"Sit down if you like," he says over his shoulder, waving absently at the bed. His voice sounds odd, but John complies anyway. After toeing off his shoes, he pulls his knees up to his chin and watches Sherlock fiddle with various things around the room, correcting crooked belongings like an obsessive compulsive. A few moments pass, and then John clears his throat, which startles Sherlock out of his tidying fit.

Leaning on his dresser, he looks at John and says, "So. What chapters were you supposed to read?"

John tells him, and without a moment's thought Sherlock launches into a long explanation. And John does his best to listen, he really does, but after a few minutes Nick and Daisy and Gatsby all begin to blur together and Sherlock's low voice becomes nothing but a soothing sort of rumble in the background. His eyes start to droop, and Sherlock interrupts himself with a quiet chuckle. Before he knows what's happening, John feels gentle hands pushing him backwards onto the bed and tucking a pillow beneath his head. And he thinks maybe he should try and protest, but now the room's gone dark and this pillow is awfully soft and Sherlock's presence is sort of reassuring even though he's all the way on the other side of the room.

The last thing John remembers before he falls asleep is the quiet murmur of violin music.

He wakes up to the beep of an alarm clock and a paper cup of tea on the bedside table. Blinking, he shuts off the alarm and looks suspiciously at the tea. He doesn't remember it being there last night. And what certainly wasn't there is the handwritten note stuck underneath the cup. Lifting the tea, he picks up the note and runs his eye over it. The names _Nick_, _Daisy_, and _Gatsby_ float out of the slanted script, and with a jolt John realizes it's a summary of the chapters he should have read last night.

Yawning, he sits all the way up, taking a sip of the tea as he reads the note. He'll study it in more depth when he's more awake, but for now he's more interested in the hasty postscript scrawled at the very end.

_Have set alarm for six thirty. Hope this is early enough. Don't forget to go to headmaster today about test. Make up some kind of intelligent story. –Sherlock_

John doesn't quite know whether to be insulted that Sherlock felt the need to tell him to make up an intelligent excuse or flattered that the taller boy considers him capable of doing so. Shrugging, he takes another sip of tea and decides not to bother with either. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he takes stock of the room, which is flooded with pale dawn light but completely lacking in Sherlock. At some point in the night John must have gotten under the covers, because they've gotten hopelessly tangled round his waist.

As he extricates himself from Sherlock's sheets, he wonders vaguely where their proper owner slept last night—or if, in fact, he slept at all. He resolves to ask him later and climbs out of bed, still balancing his cup of tea in one hand and Sherlock's note in the other. Yawning again, he slips his feet into his shoes, cracks open the door, and slips out into the deserted hallway. Noiselessly, he opens the door to his own room and finds it empty as well, Lestrade having presumably gone to brush his teeth. Shutting the door behind him, John allows himself a sigh of relief; he'd really rather not have to explain where he slept last night to his roommate, especially at this hour. He changes out of his rumpled uniform into a somewhat fresher one, slings his book bag over his shoulder, and goes off to breakfast.

In the refectory, he slides into the seat opposite Sherlock without a word. Looking up from his tray, the other boy acknowledges him with a nod before going back to his toast. John swallows several mouthfuls of oatmeal before pausing to contemplate the dark-haired boy sitting across from him. Sherlock's eyes are sharp as always, but the faint shadows underneath them seem to have grown darker.

"Thanks for the tea," John says quietly, lowering his eyes back to his own tray.

"Mm," Sherlock grunts by way of reply, and John can't help but smile into his oatmeal.

After breakfast, they walk to class together. They sit together at lunch and dinner as well. John does his homework lying on the floor of Sherlock's room while the pale boy sits on the windowsill and smokes a cigarette. Just before curfew, John returns to his own room, and it's only once he's lying safe and sound in his bed that he realizes that he never found out where Sherlock slept last night.

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Well, hello. It's been quite a long time, hasn't it? Sorry about the massive delay, but I hope this little teaser of a chapter helps whet your appetites, because I've got lots more updates to post! Be lovely and leave me reviews, if you please. 3


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter the Sixth**

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><p>"Well, your trusted faculty has outdone itself once more," Sherlock announces as he slides into the seat opposite John at lunch a few days later. With a faint frown, John notes that Sherlock is tray-less once again; the last time he ate anything was breakfast yesterday. With eating habits like this, it's a wonder the boy doesn't look more like a holocaust victim.<p>

"How was the faculty meeting, then?" John asks dryly, putting aside the food question for the moment. For a fraction of a second he thinks maybe he's managed to surprise Sherlock (his eyebrows twitch upwards just the tiniest bit, his eyes going slightly wider than usual), but then the usual expression of vaguely annoyed boredom returns.

"They didn't catch the test thief," he drawls, leaning back in his chair in his usual sprawl. "They recovered the test, and Jeffrey Davies is suspended until further notice, but the real criminal managed to run off between the rubbish bins. We handed them a perfect opportunity and, as usual, they managed to botch it."

"Oh, well," John shrugs, piercing a green bean with his fork. "At least they got the test. Sort of a shame about Davies, though; I didn't really mean for him to get in trouble."

"Oh, don't be so _forgiving_, John," Sherlock scoffs, running a hand through his disheveled curls. "The boy was trying to cheat on a test."

"Seems like a nice bloke, though," John says through a mouthful of bean. "S'not his fault he's a bit slow."

"You're hopeless," Sherlock groans. "No sense of justice whatsoever."

"I'm sorry that my sense of justice doesn't involve punishing hapless idiots who manage to get themselves seduced by a smart criminal," John snaps a bit more hotly than he meant to. "It's not fair for Davies to get suspended while the real troublemaker gets off scot-free."

Sitting back, he tries to calm himself down a bit. He's always gotten a bit too worked up about morals, but ever since he was a kid he's had a very strong sense of right and wrong. It's gotten him into trouble more than once and lost him a friend or two, but from the way Sherlock's looking at him now he figures he hasn't managed it this time. Lowering his eyes back to his lunch, he takes a few long breaths through his nose and tries to ignore the piercing blue gaze fixed on him from across the table.

"Well," Sherlock sniffs, and when John looks up he's diverted his gaze elsewhere. "Regardless, you are certainly the golden boy of the hour. The teachers talk about you like they want to give you a bloody medal or something."

"Oh, god, no," John laughs, and suddenly the tension dissipates. "What would they give me, anyway? Tattletale of the Year?"

"I rather agree that in the interest of your reputation it would certainly be better if they didn't award you," Sherlock smirks. "But our faculty has proven itself rather excellent at misjudging its own student body, so I wouldn't count out the possibility."

"Christ, can you imagine?" John chuckles. "No one would ever speak to me again. I gave them that tip on condition of anonymity, anyway."

"_I'd_ still speak to you," Sherlock says rather stiffly, and there's a hint of that old awkwardness in his voice that John can't quite ignore.

"You'd better," John grins, doing his best to dispel the discomfort edging its way onto Sherlock's face. "It's all your fault for figuring it all out in the first place."

"I rather think you had an equal hand in it," Sherlock informs him, and John couldn't care less about Sherlock's awkwardness because holy mother of god, did he just compliment him? "I would say we were…partners in crime."

"Crime-solving, more like," John manages around the enormous grin that's taken over his face. The words _equal_ and _partners_ are still floating at the forefront of his mind, and he must have the most dreadfully vacant expression but at the moment he can't quite bring himself to care. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to him that he ought to be worried about the degree of elation Sherlock's approval has caused, but he decides to save that for later and savor his triumph for now.

"Do you have a free next?" Sherlock interrupts his internal rejoicing, looking the slightest bit taken aback at John's euphoric expression.

"Um, yeah," John nods, doing his best to snap out of it. "But you've got class, haven't you?"

"Only physical education," Sherlock shrugs, waving the very notion aside. "Easily skipped."

"Alright." John swallows the last mouthful of his chicken and looks up at Sherlock curiously. "Have you got another one of your plans?"

"Not particularly," Sherlock says airily. "I just feel like a bit of a walk."

"Okay," John says slowly, unsure of whether or not to be worried. "No hiding in cupboards this time?"

"No cupboards involved whatsoever," Sherlock assures him. When John remains unconvinced, he half-chuckles and adds, "Just a walk, John. I promise."

Their walk ends up taking them all the way across campus to the enormous cliffs that overlook the churning gray sea. The castle sits on something of a promontory that juts out into the wildest ocean John has ever seen. Not that he has an awful lot to compare it with; he went on a few seaside trips when he was younger, the frequency of which declined as his dad lost his job and his parents could stand to spend less and less time together. Anyway, all he can really remember of them is a rather grimy beach crowded with fat, sunburned people, many of whom he had to dodge while a grinning Harry chased him about with a dead jellyfish impaled on a stick.

"Astonishing, isn't it?"

John jerks out of his reverie to see Sherlock staring thoughtfully down at the chilly waves tearing hungrily at the cliff face. Shivering slightly, John pulls the collar of his blazer closer around his neck. The icy wind that swirls occasionally through the castle is even more biting out here as it races off the water. He can feel his extremities slowly starting to go numb.

"They think eventually the castle will fall into the sea," Sherlock says absently, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cardigan. "In several hundred years, of course. The water is slowly eroding the cliffs, and sooner or later it'll get to the castle foundations."

"That'd be something to see, wouldn't it?" John says, looking from the leaping waves below to the castle looming several hundred yards away. "All that stone and things, just…gone. Wow."

"Quite," Sherlock nods, slipping a cigarette between his lips and cupping his hands around it to light it. As he always does, he offers his half-empty pack to John, who shakes his head just as he always does. A year or so ago he nicked a cigarette from Harry, who smokes and drinks and does every other thing straight out of the problem child handbook. It made him cough so violently that he threw up and successfully cured him of any desire whatsoever to smoke. At sixteen, Sherlock is already a cigarette or two away from a full-fledged chain smoker, and to be frank that scares John pretty badly.

"You don't like that I smoke," Sherlock says abruptly, and John looks up to see those pale eyes regarding him closely. Shifting rather uncomfortably from foot to foot, he shrugs.

"Doesn't really bother me," he lies. "S'just not really my cup of tea. But there are worse things to do, I suppose."

"I've probably done most of them," Sherlock admits, expelling a thin stream of smoke from between his lips. Raising his eyebrows, John looks closely at Sherlock, trying to imagine him doing…what? He would never in a million years take the tall boy for a drug user, but that seems to be exactly what he's suggesting. Sure, John knew druggies aplenty at his old school, ranging from hardcore potheads to occasional ecstasy users, but Sherlock?

"What on earth have _you_ done?" John asks incredulously, trying to keep a note of derision out of his voice. John's spent most of his life in state schools; what does this posh private school boy know about doing bad things?

"Oh, tried this and that," Sherlock says airily, waving one hand carelessly. "I occasionally find it pleasant to shut things off in here," he gestures towards his own head with his free hand, "For a while. I found most things rather unpleasant in the long term, though."

"Oh?" John raises an eyebrow, still rather inclined to disbelieve Sherlock's supposed debauchery. So maybe he's puffed on a joint or two, taken a pill or something at a club (though the idea of Sherlock at a club is really quite mind-boggling), but nothing serious…

"Cocaine isn't all it's cracked up to be, really," Sherlock shrugs, and John nearly chokes on air because _what_?

"C-cocaine?" he manages weakly, gaping at Sherlock's impassive face in astonishment. "You—really?" And then the unintentional pun of Sherlock's last statement sinks in, and John can't help but laugh.

"I don't see what's so _funny_, John," Sherlock huffs, taking a mildly miffed drag as John nearly doubles over with hysterical laughter.

"You don't get—cocaine, you know?" John gasps, attempting to form a coherent sentence in the face of Sherlock's unamused stare (which, of course, only serves to make the whole thing ten times funnier). "Cocaine isn't all it's _cracked_…get it, cracked? Cocaine? Crack? No? That wasn't—okay." After another moment or two, he manages to get himself under control and straighten up, shaking his head in amusement and wonder.

"I still can't believe—cocaine, Sherlock, really? Why would you do something like that?"

"You forget, John," Sherlock begins dryly, "That my family has altogether too much money and too little time to pay attention to what I get up to. Besides, I get bored.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, John," Sherlock groans at John's expression. "I went through a phase."

"You did coke because you were _bored_?" John says in astonishment, and okay, maybe he's goggling at Sherlock like he's never seen him before, but this is just _beyond_.

"That is what I said, yes," Sherlock snaps rather irritably. He takes another drag, blowing smoke out his nostrils like a skinny, fire-breathing dragon. "My brother put a stop to it quite quickly, however."

"Your brother?" John repeats. He's finding out an absolute treasure trove of Sherlock-information today; the boy is not usually this forthcoming. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"Mycroft, yes," Sherlock nods, his mouth pinching slightly like he's just tasted something sour. "He's off at university at the moment studying to be a despotic world leader or some such thing. He was, shall we say, less than pleased when he discovered my dabblings in the world of hard drugs. Our parents, of course, never found out, but needless to say I haven't touched any narcotics since."

"Some brother," John half-chuckles, shaking his head in amazement. The Holmes family is almost sounding more dysfunctional than his own. "I don't think my sister would notice if I started up a meth lab in the basement."

At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, he adds, "She's a bit…well, self-involved. I'm the good kid in the family, anyway. She goes to a lot of parties, and there's a lot of…well. Mum and Dad have started locking up their liquor bottles."

"She's older than you, is she?" Sherlock inquires. John nods, not even bothering to question how Sherlock knows. There's probably some perfectly brilliant explanation that he doesn't really feel like hearing at the moment. Talking about Harry has always made him a bit…well, touchy, especially after what happened last summer…

"She likes girls," he blurts out without really meaning to. "My sister, I mean. Last June I walked in on her with one of her girl friends." He swallows hard and notices Sherlock regarding him in an odd sort of way that he can't quite decipher.

"Not that I mind, really," John adds hastily. "I couldn't care less who she wants to snog. It's just…well, it was a bit of a shock, finding out like that. Turned out she'd got a girlfriend and had been hiding it from all of us." He shrugs, kicking listlessly at a tuft of grass at the edge of the cliff.

"Mum and Dad still don't know. She made me swear to keep it secret. We used to be really close, you know, when we were kids, but lately with the parties and the girlfriend and everything…" He lets out a long breath, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him. "Well, that's just growing up, isn't it?"

Trying for a smile, he looks up and sees that Sherlock's still looking at him with that odd, undecipherable expression. The wind's started to pick up, howling across the grassy cliff tops and straight into John's bones. With a faint spark of amusement, he notes that Sherlock's already-impossible hair is being blown into a veritable haystack, stray wisps sticking out in every direction and wreathed in a ragged cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Come on," the taller boy says abruptly, dropping his cigarette into the grass, grinding it out under his heel, and turning to walk along the cliff's edge. Rather bemused, John follows him, keeping a careful distance between his black leather shoes and the sharp drop towards the sea.

"Where are we going?" he asks, quickening his pace to catch up with Sherlock's long strides.

"Well, we can't very well stand about on the cliff top for hours, can we?" Sherlock says briskly, adjusting the blue cashmere scarf knotted loosely around his neck. "I'm going to show you something."

John's not quite sure whether to be excited or terrified, but before he can decide on either Sherlock stops short and leans dangerously close to the cliff's edge. Peering over his shoulder, John can make out rough steps cut into the pale stone of the cliff.

"That's cool," John observes, shoving his hands into his blazer pockets. "Where do they go?"

"We're going to find out, now aren't we?" That funny, rakish sort of grin appears on Sherlock's face as he sets one foot down onto the top step.

"Um, Sherlock-" John begins to protest, but the pale boy is already making his way down the narrow steps. "Oh, Christ," John mutters, and follows him.

Aside from being small, uneven, and roughly hewn, it turns out that the steps cut into the cliff face are quite slippery as well. Slick with sea spray and last night's rain, they feel about as secure under John's feet as blocks of half-melted ice. At any moment he expects to make a wrong move and go tumbling down the impossibly steep stairway, taking Sherlock with him as he falls to an undoubtedly nasty death on the pointy rocks jutting out of the sea below.

But shockingly, it never happens, and thanks to the occasional handholds hewn into the rock and sheer white-knuckled terror, John manages to make it to the bottom. The steps, it turns out, stop just a few feet short of the ocean at an enormous, flat rock that juts out into the churning waves. John steps shakily from the last step onto the sea-slick rock and looks up into Sherlock's delighted face.

"This is brilliant," Sherlock grins, facing out towards the vast, grey ocean. With the wind tugging at his hair and scarf and the spray misting his pale face, he looks like some sort of mad god, or quite possibly some bizarre nymph risen straight from the sea (in a boy's prep school uniform, for some inexplicable reason).

"Yeah, great," John shivers, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. The wind blows even harder down here, and the clammy seawater clinging to his skin does nothing to help.

"This allows for easy access to the beach," Sherlock declares excitedly, hurrying to the rock's edge and looking across to the small strip of pebbles between the bottom of the cliff and the hungry waves.

"You call that easy?" John says weakly, but Sherlock ignores him.

"The kind of observations that could be made down here…god, just _imagine_ the tide pools!"

John's about to reply that he'd really rather not, thank you very much, but before he can get out a word Sherlock's stretching one foot out across frothing seawater towards the nearest rock.

"Sherlock, what are you—have you gone completely barking?" John demands, horror swelling in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, John," Sherlock scoffs, managing to plant his foot on the rock. His legs are spread so far that he's practically doing the splits—but, of course, over several feet of icy seawater. "I'm just making my way to that beach. It is a simple matter of shifting my weight from one foot to-" He pushes off his back foot, and for one heart-stopping second John thinks he's managed it. But then his front foot slips on the slick stone, and John can practically see his weight swing backwards like a pendulum. Only this time, there is no foot there to support him, and so with a flurry of flailing limbs, Sherlock falls.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Cliffhanger! I'm terribly mean about these, but the next bit will posted soon, I promise. Be lovely and leave me reviews! 3


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter the Seventh**

* * *

><p>A shout is halfway out of John's mouth by the time he hears the splash. Without a moment's thought, he tears off his blazer, rushes to the edge of the rock, and dives in.<p>

The shock of the icy water nearly jerks the breath out of his lungs, but he barely notices the cold penetrating his body, he's so focused on _Sherlock Sherlock where's Sherlock save Sherlock where the hell is he?_

He forces his eyes open despite the sting of the salt water and peers desperately through the cloudy dimness all around him. There are a few dark, solid shapes that can only be rocks, and oh god these waves are strong and what if Sherlock's brain is getting dashed out against one of those rocks and shit why didn't John stop him? It's taking all his strength to keep the vicious current from slamming him straight into the rocks; skinny Sherlock might already be broken over them.

And then he sees it: a flash of blue, glimmering out of the grey depths. Automatically, he dives towards it, ignoring the searing in his lungs and the numbness spreading through his fingers. And sure enough, there's Sherlock, struggling desperately against his scarf, which has somehow gotten trapped between two rocks. His efforts are growing weaker, his fingers fumbling uselessly with the knot at his throat as the current slams him mercilessly against the rocks.

Without a thought, John slides himself between Sherlock and the rocks, bearing the brunt of the current as it smashes Sherlock into him and him into the rocks. Ignoring the pain blooming across his back, he reaches around Sherlock and quickly unknots the scarf, which swirls off into the depths in a flash of blue. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, John kicks harder than he's ever kicked, propelling them upwards like a missile until they break the surface with an enormous splash.

Gasping desperately for air, John paddles his way through the waves with one arm, the other still wrapped tightly around Sherlock's limp body. With a grunt of effort, John heaves Sherlock up onto the flat rock and climbs up after him. He manages to drag that still, skinny form out into the middle of the rock, well out of the reach of the grasping waves.

Breath catching in his throat, he kneels over Sherlock, his mind racing. A hundred confused thoughts swirl through his brain, but foremost among them is _Sherlock isn't breathing._He considers CPR, chest compressions, and—his mind falters slightly here but presses onwards regardless—mouth-to-mouth. Swallowing hard, he leans down, clasps one hand over the other, and gives Sherlock's chest an experimental push.

With something between a cough, a wheeze, and a splutter, Sherlock expels an inordinate amount of seawater from his mouth and breathes in with an enormous gasp. Coughing violently, he rolls over onto his stomach and heaves himself up onto his elbows while John sits back on his heels, trying to ignore the relief replacing the heavy, cold feeling that's been growing in his chest.

"Jesus _Christ_, Sherlock," he groans in exasperation, reaching down and pushing the boy's sopping hair out of his face. "Are you alright?"

"Working on it," Sherlock grunts between coughs. He's still spitting out large quantities of seawater, and what with what's dripping off both their sodden clothes, they're sitting in their very own tide pool. Shaking his head, John pushes back his own waterlogged hair and allows himself a small, wet cough. Altogether too much salt water managed to find its way into his mouth and lungs when he was fighting his way through those churning waves.

"What the hell were you _thinking_?" he demands, but the heat of the statement is kind of undermined by the way his teeth are chattering. "We could have both been drowned!"

"You saved me," Sherlock says weakly, and when he raises his head his blue eyes are fixed squarely on John. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he coughs faintly and adds, "Bit of a shame about the scarf, though. I liked that color."

"Oh, shut up!" John exclaims, but they're both laughing. "You're absolutely mad," he gasps, wiping seawater out of his eyes. "Completely barking."

"Good thing I keep you around, then," Sherlock smiles, and for a moment John forgets that he's wet and exhausted and it feels like there are icicles coming out of his nose because Sherlock is_smiling_at him with enough warmth to bring the feeling back into all his fingers and toes. And then John remembers that he has a girlfriend, for god's sake, and what the hell does he care if Sherlock smiles at him?

"Let's get you back to the castle," he says gruffly, but he can't keep a trace of kindness out of his voice. Slinging an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, he helps him to his feet and lets the taller boy lean on him as they make their slippery way back to the steps. At some point it's started to rain, and the steps are doubly treacherous when there's water on them and in John's eyes. Somehow, however, they manage to make it to the top without any mishaps, and there begins the long, wet, windy trek back to the castle.

But somehow it's a bit more bearable with Sherlock's comforting weight beside him and Sherlock's breath brushing the side of his face and Sherlock's warmth seeping through the layers of his wet clothes. Sherlock talks all the way back to the castle (formulating plans for further expeditions to observe marine life, to which John half-heartedly agrees while making a mental note never to allow Sherlock anywhere near the sea ever again), and by the time they get inside, any traces of irritation lingering in John's stomach have disappeared.

John misses his next class because the nurse in the infirmary insists on examining him as well as Sherlock, who managed to fracture his ankle against one of the rocks (and walked all the way back to the castle without saying a thing about it, which prompts some rather angry words from John). The next morning, John wakes up with some pretty spectacular bruises and a sore throat, and then proceeds to come down with a mild cold just in time for the weekend. He does his best to be angry with Sherlock, but the boy stays in his room with him and brings him cups of tea from the refectory until he can't quite bring himself to be upset anymore.

-  
>It's just a few days later that it happens. Afterwards, John supposes that he should have seen it coming; he's barely spoken to Sarah at all in the last week or so, his time being consumed as it is by class, football, and Sherlock. Besides, as much as he hates to admit it, he's sort of come to dread their Skype conversations, which have lately become less fun and giggles and <em>I miss you<em>and more long, awkward pauses and avoiding eye contact and _so…what did you do today?_It's barely been a month since he left and they've already run out of things to say. And it frustrates him like no other, because he still gets those same old butterflies whenever he sees her face, still smiles whenever he thinks of her, still misses her. But he can feel her drifting away from him, and deep down he's worried that she feels the same.

But, somehow, it still comes as a surprise when he opens up his laptop, turns on his webcam, and sends her a video chat request—and she denies it.

**Sarah?**he types stupidly, unsure of what exactly to say. There are, of course, dozens of reasons why she should decline his chat request: perhaps she's got friends or family over, or maybe she's just about to go out, or maybe she's got loads of schoolwork and no time to talk. But the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him that there's something else going on.

**hi john,** she says, and for a moment his heart leaps because this doesn't seem off. This is perfectly normal. And then he notices that she doesn't correctly capitalize her words, and oh _god_that's so annoying and why didn't he notice it before? Frowning, he decides that Sherlock is rubbing off on him a bit too much and turns his attention to the message Sarah has just sent.

**i don't want to video chat,**she writes, and John thinks _well, obviously_ but pushes the thought to the back of his mind. **i just want to tell you something.****  
><strong>  
><strong>OK, go for it,<strong>he writes back, chewing his lower lip anxiously. It's probably nothing; it might even be good news. Who knows? Maybe she's coming to visit him, or maybe she's won something at school, or maybe she's getting a new dog—

**i don't think this is working.****  
><strong>  
>The words appear suddenly on his screen, hanging harshly at the forefront of his eyeballs like someone scratched them there. <em>I don't think this is working.<em>_  
><em>  
>Numbly, he reaches forward and types, <strong>What do you mean?<strong>

There's a pause, in which he just sort of stares blankly at the computer screen, the words cycling endlessly through his brain. _I don't think this is working I don't think this is working I don't think working think is this I don't working don't think—__  
><em>  
><strong>i can't handle a long-distance relationship,<strong> she writes. John blinks slowly at the words until more appear.  
><strong><br>****we never see each other, and you're never even online anymore. we never talk, and when we do its awkward. we don't have anything to talk about anymore.**

_It's, it's,_John thinks in some distant part of his brain that sounds vaguely like Sherlock. A somewhat nearer part of his brain demands to know why he's fussing about punctuation at a time like this. The foremost part of his brain is still focusing on the chat window, which is quickly filling up with more messages from Sarah.

**i want to go out with someone else. you should too.**

_Thanks for the advice,_he thinks bitterly, but his hands refuse to move from where they're clenched in his lap. He thinks he should type something, anything, but the words just won't come.

**i've got to go now. i'm sorry. i'll see you this summer or something.**

And with that, she logs out.

John stares at the computer screen for a few long, silent moments, trying to process what's just happened. Sarah just broke up with him. That's what happened. That actually happened. And now he feels…well, mostly just sort of numb. Like it hasn't quite sunk in yet. Vaguely, he wonders how he'll feel when it does. There's an odd question lingering in the back of his mind: does he even love Sarah anymore? He certainly knows he used to, but it was easy to when she was there to hold his hand and smile at him and laugh at his dumb jokes and snog him through bad movies at the local cinema.

But from far away, it's been…well, it's been really hard, and quite frankly he's lost his infatuation with her without her soft hair and easy grin and sweet girl-smell to keep the feeling fresh. If he's being honest with himself, it's been days since he even thought of her. But, somehow, that doesn't make this any less…well, he's just been dumped. Over _Skype_. At some point, whenever his brain decides to resume its proper function, this is going to hurt.

Slowly, he reaches out and closes the lid of his laptop. Moving like a sleepwalker, he pushes back his chair, gets up from his desk, and moves towards the door of his room. He hasn't the faintest idea of where he wants to go, but his feet automatically turn left and take him down the deserted hallway to Sherlock's door.

"The door's unlocked," Sherlock calls, just as he did on John's very first night here. The boy has an uncanny knack for sensing John's presence outside his room; he's never once knocked on this door.

Still moving as if in a dream, John turns the doorknob and steps into the room, which is dim but for the blue evening sunlight that filters in through the lone window and gives the room an eerie, underwater feeling. Sherlock, as usual, is perched on his windowsill with a cigarette in one hand, his crutches leaning against the wall beside him. His booted foot knocks gently against the windowsill, tapping out a subtle rhythm that falters as he looks up and sees John's face.

"John, are you…?" Sherlock trails off as if he doesn't quite know how to finish the question. Ordinarily, John would be sort of chuffed about managing to confound Sherlock Holmes, but as it is he's just sort of standing mutely in the center of the room while Sherlock inspects his face searchingly.

And then, out of the blue, Sherlock says, "Sarah broke up with you, didn't she?"

John is instantly overwhelmed with the sudden urge to punch the skinny boy's lights out, but he's all the way across the room and already crippled besides, so John just settles for delivering a vicious kick to Sherlock's bedstead. The entire frame jolts backwards, the headboard hitting the wall with a surprisingly loud thud. Without a word, John slumps down onto the mattress, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his foot. In the future, he notes, he should probably choose softer things to kick.

After a long, long silence, Sherlock says, "Could you pass me my violin case, please? It's on the floor beside the bed." His voice sounds strange, almost gentle, but that could just be the strange, distant quality that all sound seems to have acquired.

Sitting up, John picks up the elegant black case and passes it over to Sherlock, who stubs his cigarette out on the windowsill and sets the case down in his lap. Letting a long breath out through his nose, John flops back down and resumes staring dully at the ceiling overhead. After a moment or two, the faint sounds of a violin being tuned fill the room. John shuts his eyes as the first strains of a Debussy sonata slip into his ears like warm water. It's not long before his overwhelmed mind starts to shut down, and in a matter of minutes he's fast asleep.

-  
>It's dark by the time he wakes up, but apart from that and the alarm clock showing one AM, the room is exactly as it was when he closed his eyes. The violin case is sitting on the windowsill next to Sherlock, who is still blowing smoke out into the night, the red glow of his cigarette ember reflecting in his liquid eyes and lending the faintest rosy cast to his cheekbones.<p>

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says quietly as John sits up and swings his legs off the bed. John makes a mental note to remember this moment for all eternity as the time that Sherlock Holmes actually apologized to him. Unfortunately, he's a bit too exhausted at the moment to rejoice properly.

"S'alright," John grunts, rubbing his eyes and putting off standing up, not quite wanting to relinquish the softness of Sherlock's mattress just yet. "Sorry about your bed."

"It's still intact," Sherlock shrugs, his cigarette ember carving an elegant streak through the air. There's a brief pause before he says, somewhat awkwardly, "You can sleep here if you like."

"I should get back to my own room," John sighs, trying to hide the reluctance in his voice. "Lestrade may not believe that I fell asleep in the library a _second_time."

"As you wish," Sherlock nods, turning to look out into the cloudy night. John stands up and turns to go but pauses, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's half-shadowed face.

"D'you want help?" John asks rather clumsily, the words fighting their way through his sleep-thick mouth. "Getting back to your bed, I mean."

Hidden in the words is a plea to _sleep, Sherlock, please_. John's not sure if Sherlock hears it, but for one reason or another, after a moment's consideration he nods.

"If you don't mind," Sherlock says awkwardly, stubbing out his cigarette and pushing himself to the inner edge of the windowsill. "These crutches are such a bloody nuisance."

"Good thing you've got me, then," John smiles slightly, and he dares to imagine that Sherlock smiles a little too as he puts his arm around John's shoulders and gingerly lowers himself off the windowsill. Putting a steadying arm around Sherlock's waist, John helps the taller boy limp across the room before gently lowering him onto the bed. He stands there for a moment looking at him, all those sharp planes and angles turned to quicksilver in the faint moonlight leaking in through the window. Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows and looks up at John, eyes shining with something that he can't quite decipher but doesn't really think is just moonlight.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says softly, and before John knows what's happening he's utterly overwhelmed by the urge to lean down and press close to that skinny body, to climb onto that bed and straddle those jutting hips and…

He turns away, breath coming a bit quicker than it should. "Don't mention it," he mumbles hurriedly, practically scrambling to get away from the bed. He's overtired, that's all. Exhausted and overwhelmed and emotional and…odd. He's gone a bit funny in the head. It's far, far too early in the morning for rational thought.

"Good night," Sherlock calls after him as he reaches the door and pulls it open. He means to reply, he really does, but instead he just slips out into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him. Maybe he's just imagining things, but it seems like Sherlock's hurt silence follows him all the way back to his own room.

It takes him a very long time to fall back asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Hullo again, it's me! Once again, sorry about the ridiculously long update gap. I always seem to forget to post new chapters. Anyway, hope you enjoyed finally having that cliffhanger resolved. Be lovely and leave me reviews! 3


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter the Eighth**

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><p>It all starts when John decides to steal a cup. Well, not <em>steal<em>, not really. Just…borrow. It's not like he's going to sell it off or sneak it into his luggage to take home; he just wants a glass of water to keep on his bedside table at night. He's found it helps to calm him down when he wakes up from one of his nightmares, which have been getting more and more frequent lately.

He dreams about plunging into icy depths and diving towards Sherlock, who's sinking down into the infinite darkness at the bottom of the ocean. Inevitably, John begins to float inexorably upwards, and no matter how violently he struggles, Sherlock's lifeless hand slips from his grasp. He wakes up just before he breaks the surface, gasping for breath and drenched with sweat.

Or sometimes he's back in his house on a sunny Sunday afternoon, looking about aimlessly for something or other (sometimes it's a jumper, sometimes his mobile charger, sometimes his football uniform). On a whim, he opens the door to Harry's room and finds her on her bed, straddling—not Clara, her girlfriend, but Sarah, her blond hair splayed in a careless halo around her head. The two of them look up and laugh at him as he stumbles backwards out of the room, their faces cruel and malicious. He wakes up with his heart pounding, and it takes a moment or two for him to remember that it's not real.

The strangest one of all is when he dreams about a different kind of water; not grey and salty like the sea, but cool and clean and faintly blue, smooth and placid under cold lights. And then all of a sudden there's an enormous force bearing down on him, forcing him beneath the water's surface and down, down into bottomless depths. Lungs burning, he tries to struggle against it, but there are strong arms wrapped around him and something dark and heavy restricting his movement, and so he can only look helplessly up at the flames bursting above the water's surface overhead. He wakes up with the smell of chlorine in his nostrils, wondering what the hell is the matter with him.

Regardless of the nightmare, it's always reassuring to have that glass of water within reach, to drink from or press against his feverish forehead. To remind him what reality is.

But it has to be a glass. Paper cups just don't cut it; they're too flimsy and make the water taste funny besides. The refectory has glasses, and so he decides to steal one. Well, not steal it; just borrow it and return it at the end of term. Perfectly simple.

Perhaps he's been spending too much time with Sherlock lately, but he finds it surprisingly easy to snatch a glass. He considers hiding it underneath his shirt, but in the end decides it's much easier to just walk out with it in one hand, acting for all the world as if he's got every right to have it. And so that is exactly what he does: one afternoon after football practice, he goes into the mostly empty refectory, fills up a glass of water, and walks right out the front door with it. He sort of thinks Sherlock would be proud.

Once outside, however, he decides to err on the side of caution and go round the back of the building to drink his water. When it's empty, he reasons, he can just dangle the glass casually by his side (and fake complete absent-minded innocence if caught). Leaning against one of the enormous rubbish bins, he takes a long sip of water and lets himself relax slightly. It's been a long, long day; he had a test in math and an in-class essay in Latin, not to mention an unusually cold, wet football practice. It rained again last night, and the days are getting shorter and chillier as fall melts away into winter. Soon, he thinks, all this rain will turn to snow, which will be quite a sight. A faint smile drifts onto his face at the thought of a snowy winter, a phenomenon that he never got to experience in London. God, he'd love to see Sherlock in a snowball fight…

He's jerked rudely out of his reverie when someone taps him sharply on the shoulder. _Shit,_ he thinks faintly, and prepares his most innocent, oh-I'm-so-sorry-I-just-needed-a-bit-of-air-I'll-take-the-glass-right-back-inside expression. But he doesn't even get a chance to use it, because the instant that he turns around, someone punches him in the face.

The glass shatters on the pavement as he stumbles backwards and collides with one of the rubbish bins with a clang. Hands instinctively guarding his head, he struggles to right himself and get a good look at his assailant. When he lowers his hands, his stomach drops. Make that assailant_s_; there are at least six of them, all tall, strapping boys with short hair, well-pressed shirts, and singularly unpleasant expressions.

Rubbing his hand, the boy closest to John takes a step towards him, an ugly smirk spreading across his face. John thinks maybe he recognizes him from the form above him; that pale, pinched face seems oddly familiar. Andrews, he thinks his name might be. Anders. Something like that.

"This is a little warning for you, mate," whatever-his-name-is sneers, and with a jolt John realizes that he's rolling up his sleeves. "We won't tolerate any bloody queers at this school."

"What are you-" John tries to say, but he's interrupted when the older boy punches him in the stomach. Slumping back against the rubbish bins, he faintly hears someone shout something like _grab him_, and almost instantly there are hands tugging roughly at his arms, pushing and shoving him about like he's a rag doll. Blindly, he stumbles forward, trying to catch his breath.

"I don't…I don't know what you're talking about," he gasps, trying to see through the red mist rising behind his eyes. Blurry shapes all around him confirm his fears: he's surrounded. Then, without warning, fire rockets up and down his spine as a hard, pointy shoe connects with his back. Grunting in pain, he starts to fall forwards but is swiftly knocked back by an uppercut to the eye.

"Don't think no one knows," a voice calls out gloatingly, and all in a flash John remembers the smirking boy's name. _Anderson._ "We're not stupid, despite what your boyfriend might think."

"What are you _talking_ about?" John snarls, straightening up and wiping something that he desperately hopes isn't blood out of his eyes. They're closing in, all of them, fists up and grinning murder in their eyes. And now he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what's going on, but he's not planning on letting on any time soon. Let Anderson come out and say it.

"You're buggering Sherlock Holmes," Anderson declares, and when John whirls around to face him something very much like a fist collides with the side of his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he staggers sideways but manages to stay on his feet.

"You're lying," he spits, and something that is definitely blood lands on Anderson's gleaming shoes.

Disgust twisting his thin lips, Anderson nods almost imperceptibly at one of his comrades. Before John can turn to defend himself, a foot collides with the backs of his knees, and with another grunt of pain he falls to the ground.

"It's pretty obvious, really," John dimly hears Anderson sneer as another foot connects with his ribcage. "The way you two go around together…it's sickening, that's what it is. Some first-year said he found you two in a closet together. Really fucking classy, mate."

Completely befuddled, his mind says, _Jim? Shit, _just before someone else kicks him in the stomach. Groaning, he curls into a defensive ball as what feels like a shower of rock-filled shoes pours down onto every inch of his body. Through the pummeling, he sees Anderson kneel down beside him, his grin growing still crueler.

"So tell me," he whispers during a brief pause in the rain of blows. "How much is he paying you?"

And that is Anderson's mistake. Because in that moment, the red-hot pain permeating every fiber of John's body is replaced by pure, white rage. He barely even registers the spinning in his head as he sits up, or the throbbing in his arms when he launches himself forward, or the agonizing blow that shudders through him when he crashes into Anderson and brings him to the ground. In some other world, people around him are shouting and running towards him, but all that matters right now is pummeling the living daylights out of Anderson's stupid, privileged, bastard, lying face.

He doesn't get more than four blows in before rough hands drag him off and fling him face-first to the pavement, which, as he is now painfully aware, is covered with razor-sharp glass shards. Something like an animal howl of pain and fury finds its way out of his mouth as he struggles to get to his feet (to get away from the broken glass or continue hitting Anderson or possibly both; he's not quite sure).

But someone pushes him back down, and through blood-streaked vision he can see Anderson standing up slowly, head cradled in both hands. He mutters something to his cronies, and it's not long before John's being showered with blows once more. This time, however, he quickly goes numb, his brain shutting itself down to shield itself from the oceans of pain flooding his nerves. He feels his eyes go dull and glassy, and although he's curled into a tiny ball, kicking him means about as much as beating a stuffed animal. He barely feels anything anymore; he barely even knows who he is. Reality fades as he enters a strange, silent, empty world.

When he comes to, he's alone. There's nothing out here but him, the rubbish bins, the cold pavement, and the fading light of the setting sun. Swallowing weakly, he tries to push himself up on his forearms but has to pause as a wave of nausea washes over him. When that passes, he barely takes a breath before he's consumed by an enormous, chest-wracking bout of hacking. Drops of crimson spatter onto the pavement with every cough.

Wiping the blood and spit from his mouth with the back of one hand, he tries to push himself up further, only to slip and crash back to the pavement with a small, wounded cry like that of an injured animal. To his enormous shame, tears spring into his eyes at the sheer pain rocketing through him. His stomach, ribs, head, and back are throbbing dully, and there's raw, immediate stinging where glass has pierced his hands, arms, knees, and face. And then there's blood in his mouth and blood in his eyes and blood all over his hands and what's probably blood dripping from his nose and oh, god, how is he ever going to stand up, how is he ever going to get out of here-

"John?"

With considerable difficulty, John manages to raise his head just enough to see one scuffed leather shoe, one heavy ankle boot, and…crutches. Oh, god. He's not sure whether to be relieved or anxious, or whether he can even feel anything anymore other than pain. Of its own accord, his head slumps back to the ground with a rather sickening thud, and he thinks maybe he hears Sherlock draw in a very short, very sharp breath.

And then a clatter echoes across the icy pavement, and John raises his eyes to see Sherlock's crutches fallen in a heap on the ground. Before he can speak, can protest, can ask Sherlock _what the hell do you think you're doing you're going to fracture your ankle again pick those crutches up this instant_, there are slim, warm arms sliding beneath him and lifting him up and pressing him close to a slim, warm chest.

"Sh-sherlock," he manages weakly as Sherlock begins to walk slowly forwards, grim determination written all over his face. "Your ankle, Sherlock…what're you…where are you…your ankle…"

"Has been coddled for far too long," Sherlock says firmly, shifting John slightly in his arms. "It will be fine. We're not going far, anyway."

"Don't be…s-stupid," John says thickly, struggling to speak through the blood in his mouth. "Y'can't carry me…"

"I think I'm doing quite well so far," Sherlock says briskly. "You're lighter than you think, John. Nearly there now."

Blinking blearily around him, John realizes that they're inside now, making their slow way through the deserted stone passageways of the castle. Dimly, he's sort of surprised that he didn't notice when they entered the building, but on the other hand he's feeling sort of out of it and besides, being held in Sherlock's arms and pressed against his chest is proving a bit more distracting than it should be. With a faint sigh, he lets his head drop sideways onto Sherlock's shoulder, which although rather bony makes a pretty good headrest.

"Nearly there," Sherlock repeats quietly, as much to himself as to John. After another minute or two, Sherlock turns sideways and shoulders open a door that leads into an empty, ringing room with white porcelain tiles covering the walls. Gingerly, Sherlock lowers John to the floor, which proves to be covered with tile as well.

"Sherlock," John says slowly, trying to find a way to frown that doesn't hurt, "Sherlock, why am I in a bathroom?"

"First-floor lavatory," Sherlock corrects him, straightening up. "It was closest. I'll be right back," he adds, heading back towards the door. "Stay here."

"Where am I gonna go?" John mutters, but Sherlock's already gone. Pillowing his head on one arm, he closes his eyes and takes slow, deep breaths until the strange, woozy feeling starts to fade from his head. By the time Sherlock returns, he's feeling a bit more like himself.

"Don't sit up," Sherlock orders hastily as John tries to raise his head. "Just…stay there. I've got a first aid kit," he adds, showing John the white case in his hand before setting it down on the floor and prying it open. John considers asking where he got it but decides he'd really rather not know.

"Let me see your hands," Sherlock orders, a kind note in his voice that John can't quite ignore. Obediently, he raises his hands, which Sherlock pulls gently into his lap. It's only then that John sees the tweezers in Sherlock's fingers and grits his teeth in preparation for more pain. Fortunately, Sherlock is incredibly, impossibly gentle, almost to the point of tenderness, and so John barely even winces each time a shard of glass leaves his skin.

From his hands, Sherlock moves on to his forearms, which are also studded with glass. It's only after he's dabbed off the blood and dabbed on a bit of hydrogen peroxide that he looks into John's eyes and asks, "Who did this?"

"Some…guys," John says evasively, faintly troubled by the steely look in Sherlock's eyes.

"Who, John?" Sherlock repeats, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.

"Anderson," John blurts out without meaning to. "And…some other guys I didn't know," he adds uselessly, but there's already a cold fury burning in Sherlock's eyes.

"Anderson," he says slowly, the syllables tinkling into place like ice. And in that pale, fine-boned face, John can see the thousand and five cruel, painful deaths being plotted for Anderson in Sherlock's vast, churning mind.

"Anderson," Sherlock says again, his voice growing still quieter as he gets to his feet. Apprehension swelling in his stomach, John watches Sherlock pull a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser and dampen them in the sink. After a moment or two of staring broodingly down the drain, he kneels back down beside John and begins wiping away the blood caking John's face. "What did he say?"

"Nothing," John says a bit too quickly, his mind going blank with panic. "I don't know. Something about the biology test. I'm not sure."

"John." Sherlock's hands continue their work, but his eyes are piercing John's skull. "Don't lie to me. What did he say?"

"He…" John chews the inside of his cheek anxiously, unsure of what to say. '_He said that we're fucking'? 'He said that we're disgusting'? 'He said that you're paying me to have sex with you'? _Some evil voice in the far, black depths of his mind says, _you wouldn't have to pay me_, but he quickly silences it. Sherlock is still staring at him, and those brows are drawing together thunderously. He'd better say something, and quick.

"He thinks that you and I-" John breaks off as he realizes that he has no earthly idea of how to finish the sentence. After a moment's consideration, he plunges on. "He thinks we're…you know. Together."

But Sherlock's still staring at him, uncomprehending. Sighing quietly, John wishes that Sherlock had a slightly better grasp of teenage slang than your average grandmother, because now it looks like he's just going to have to come out and say it.

"He thinks we're having sex, Sherlock," he says bluntly, and finally the light of understanding flickers on in those pale eyes. "He thinks we're together in…that way. Like dating."

"He is an idiot," Sherlock says flatly, an odd sort of hardness appearing around the corners of his mouth as he dabs slightly harder at John's forehead. "Anyone with any observational skill whatsoever could see that we are just friends, and anyway you are clearly straight and just ended a long-term relationship and there is absolutely no way-"

"Sherlock," John cuts him off gently, a faint smile hitching up one corner of his mouth. "It's okay. _I _know we're not having sex."

"Hold still," Sherlock says brusquely, one firm hand cupping John's chin as he cleans the blood off his upper lip. And it's bizarre, it really is, but somewhere deep down John is enjoying this, is enjoying Sherlock's warm hand against his jaw and Sherlock's fingertips brushing his lips and Sherlock's gaze fixed on him and Sherlock's gentle fingers sliding into his hair to tilt his head back as he wipes the blood off his chin.

"I know why he's done this," Sherlock says suddenly, switching out the paper towel in favor of dabbing stinging peroxide onto the place where John's chin split against the hard pavement. "Anderson is trying to scare you away from me."

At John's curious look, Sherlock's frown deepens as he explains, "The boy's hated me ever since I exposed him for bullying money out of first-years a few years ago. And since his direct attacks on me have proved less than successful, he has clearly developed a more sophisticated approach." He clears his throat rather awkwardly, leaning slightly closer to wipe blood out of a tear in John's jumper.

"Namely, singling out the only person in the school who matters to me in the least," Sherlock continues, not meeting John's eyes, "And beating him to a pulp in order to convince him to abandon his friendship with me."

"Well, it won't work," John declares firmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I fear, John, that it might be better if you did," Sherlock says quietly, and wait a second, _what_?

"What do you mean?" John asks, and he clearly did a terrible job of keeping the hurt out of his voice because Sherlock is looking at him like he's a wounded bird flopping about piteously in the road.

"As much as I value your friendship," Sherlock says heavily, as if every word pains him, "I care too deeply about you to allow you to be persecuted on my account. In the interest of avoiding further bodily injury, I think it best that you end your association with me."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter the Ninth**

* * *

><p>"What? No!" Practically bristling in indignation, John pushes himself up onto his elbows and glares defiantly up at Sherlock. "I'm not going to cut myself off from my best mate just because some flaming asshole like Anderson wants me to!"<p>

"While your loyalty is commendable, John, I think you had best consider your own safety," Sherlock says stiffly, his eyes sliding downwards to rest on his own knees.

"Damn my safety!" John snaps, managing to push himself all the way into a sitting position, albeit leaning against the cool tiled wall.

"Oh, for god's sake, John, lie down-"

"I'm not leaving you, Sherlock!"

"Anderson will find you again. I cannot allow that to happen-"

"I don't care. Next time I'll be prepared."

"Is there nothing I can say to make you see reason?" Sherlock demands, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Mutely, John shakes his head, jaw set in determination. So maybe he's being stubborn, but this is just ridiculous. They'd be playing right into Anderson's hands, letting that stupid bloody prat win. Besides, John knows for a fact that he'd be absolutely miserable without Sherlock, and he has a feeling that the older boy feels the same-

"I care for you, John," Sherlock announces suddenly, body tensed as if he expects John to hit him. Blinking at him, John nods.

"I care for you too, Sherlock," he says slowly, the phrasing tasting odd in his mouth. "I told you, you're my best mate."

But Sherlock shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as if the very motion pains him. Letting a long breath, he says, "Not like that. I _care_ for you, in…in the way…" He pauses, swallows hard, and tries again. "In the way that…that Anderson thinks I do."

For a few long seconds, John just stares at him. He can feel his brain grinding and sparking like an overloaded computer as it tries to process what Sherlock just said. He _cares_ for him, he said. In…in _that_ way. In a—John hardly dares to think the word—_romantic_way. He's almost not sure whether he's more surprised that Sherlock has these feelings for him or that it's possible for Sherlock to have these feelings at all. The former, however, is probably what's making his heart pound so loudly.

"Is that not sufficient?" Sherlock snaps, eyes avoiding John's dumbfounded face. "Will that finally convince you to abandon our friendship?"

Without quite meaning to, John shakes his head, and Sherlock's eyes narrow. A faint flush has crept into his cheeks, tiny spots of embarrassment burning high on his fine cheekbones. John's not sure that he's ever seen anything so lovely.

"For god's sake, what is the matter with you?" Sherlock cries, running frustrated hands through his hair. "A declaration of this nature would suffice to send any normal teenage boy running for the hills! Why are you still here?"

"Well, I-" John begins before he realizes that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence. As usual, Sherlock has reduced him to a slack-jawed, speechless moron, and to make matters worse, his heart is pounding so loudly that he can barely hear himself think.

"It's like…I…" he stammers uselessly, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes as he mutters, "Fuck. I'm not good at this." Dropping his hands uselessly into his lap, he looks up into Sherlock's face, and there he sees a reflection of his own terror and nerves and _oh god what the actual fuck is going on how did I get here what am I doing_, and he feels his heart swell because Sherlock's expression is so beautifully _human _and he's really sort of in love.

"I care for you, too," he blurts out without even thinking. "I-in that way," he adds quickly, and wait a second, when did Sherlock's eyes get so big?

"I think," John goes on, and oh, _god_, why can't he just stop talking? "I mean, I'm pretty sure…I don't really know, it's sort of new, you know, liking a bloke and all that but…I think…" He trails off, twisting his lower lip anxiously between his teeth. There's a silence, during which he watches Sherlock fiddle fretfully with one of the bloody paper towels in his hands.

Finally, without looking up, the older boy says, "This is not…you're not joking?"

Nonplussed, John cocks his head to one side, momentarily jolted out of his painful awkwardness. "Why would I be joking?"

"You must forgive me, but previous experience has taught me to be wary." Sherlock looks up at John with a grim smile, and there it is again: that tightness in John's chest, like his heart is expanding—or maybe his ribs are contracting. Whichever it is, he has to fight the urge to wrap his arms around himself to make sure he doesn't explode in a giant shower of rainbows and sparkles and cupcake frosting and warm fuzzies. Because the longer Sherlock looks at him with those wide, vulnerable eyes, the more likely that becomes.

"Christ, Sherlock," John breathes, and that came out _way_ more tender than he expected it to. Embarrassed, he rushes on, "No, I'm not joking. I'm not…I wouldn't do that. To you. Well, to anyone, really, but especially…especially not you."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth has started to quirk irresistibly upwards, and John feels a sudden heat spread across his cheekbones.

"Shit, I'm rambling, aren't I?" he groans, dropping his face into one hand. "Sorry, I don't…this is all making me kind of nervous."

"Well," Sherlock says briskly, and the firmness of his tone makes John look up, "It seems to me that, as we appear to have agreed upon mutual affection and-" he coughs quietly and doesn't meet John's eyes, "-attraction, the next logical step is establishing a relationship."

"A relationship," John repeats faintly, and things are getting way too crowded in his ribcage because now his stomach has leapt up there to join his swelling heart.

"A relationship," Sherlock nods, but then the businesslike tone slips slightly from his voice as he adds, "Though I will admit that you are far more experienced than I in matters of this nature, so I suppose I could be wrong…"

Faintly, it occurs to John that he ought to be utterly flabbergasted; Sherlock just admitted that he _might_ be _wrong_. But somehow he can't quite dredge up the energy required for adequate rejoicing; all his attention is focused on his next sentence, which he turns over several times in his mind before he finally manages to spit it out.

"Well, I'll be your boyfriend if you'll be mine."

He sort of meant it to be nonchalant and matter-of-fact, but it comes out sort of timid and dreadfully _earnest_, which is sort of annoying but not terribly important because Sherlock's_nodding_, nodding slowly and thoughtfully but very much affirmatively.

"That sounds like a deal to me," he says quietly, and there's a smile hidden in there somewhere.

John can't quite conceal his own as he says, "Right, then." Ducking his head slightly to hide the impossible grin creeping onto his face, he glances up and sees Sherlock fighting the same sort of awed smile. And really, who could blame him because _Christ,_this is actually happening. He actually said something, actually spat it out, actually _told _Sherlock how he feels instead of trying to show him in obscure ways like force-feeding him peas or saving him from drowning. A contented sort of silence falls as they each grin quietly to themselves, reveling in the beauty of shared understanding.

And then Sherlock clears his throat and announces, "I'm taking you to the infirmary."

"What?" John straightens up, his satisfied smile dropping off his face like a stone.

Sherlock's face twists just a fraction as he says, "You have just suffered a rather brutal beating, John. You need proper medical care."

"I feel fine," John mumbles, and he doesn't really intend for it to come out so sulky but it does. "What'll I tell the nurse, anyway? I fell down some really pointy stair-"

"John." Sherlock cuts him off, and a faint shiver rolls down John's spine because when those pale eyes meet his they're dead, dead serious. "I insist. I could never forgive myself if I allowed you to walk away with a serious injury. We are going to the infirmary."

The concern evident in Sherlock's voice stirs up something warm and fuzzy in John's stomach, and he's vaguely aware of that heart-swelling feeling yet again. At this rate, he'll be nothing but a puddle of rainbows before long. _I could never forgive myself_…well, shit, what is he supposed to say to that?

Slumping in defeat, he sighs, "Fine. Though," he adds exasperatedly, shaking his head, "I don't understand where this sudden concern for my safety is coming from. Just last week you had me jumping into freezing water after you because you wanted to look at _tide pools_."

"That was more out of a lack of concern for my own safety than for yours," Sherlock points out, his smirk returning as he gets to his feet and leans down to help John up. "I didn't ask you to come in after me."

Heat rises in John's cheeks as he takes Sherlock's hand and lets him pull him gently to his feet (and there's a bit of a spark there, because he's touching Sherlock and that's okay because they're _boyfriends_ now and he has half a mind to hold on but Sherlock lets go almost instantly). Honestly, now that he looks back on it, he's sort of surprised that Sherlock was so convinced that he was straight. He practically drowned himself to save him, not to mention the fact that he's fallen asleep in Sherlock's bed _twice_ and fusses at him almost constantly about eating, his injured ankle, doing his schoolwork, and all the other things that concern your average mother.

"So explain to me why, exactly, you thought my feelings for you were strictly platonic?" John asks with a dry smile. Shrugging, Sherlock bends down to scoop up the little pile of paper towels and gauze lying abandoned on the floor. "I suppose I willfully ignored the evidence," he admits, faintly embarrassed. "I deduced pretty quickly that you were fiercely loyal and sought a more adventurous life than your average prep school boy, which sort of explained the underwater heroics as well as the fact that you leapt into a closet with me after about forty minutes of conversation…"

"Hang on," John interrupts indignantly as Sherlock dumps the bloodstained towels into the garbage bin. "If I recall correctly, you were the one who pushed me into that closet."

"And you let me," Sherlock points out with a sly smile, pushing open the bathroom door.

When they arrive at the infirmary, the nurse takes one look at them (John looking like a member of a particularly violent underground boxing ring, Sherlock gone suddenly pale and trying his hardest to hide his limp) and pushes them into adjoining cots, muttering something under her breath that sounds distinctly like _what is it with you two_. While she bustles off to, John hopes, procure copious amounts of painkillers, he glances anxiously over at Sherlock because_what the hell are they going to tell her_? The tall boy just pushes himself up onto his elbows and gives John a look that distinctly says, _Don't worry. I've got it covered._ And then John realizes that they're communicating without speaking a single word and oh god that's just so brilliant that he can't help but grin like a maniac.

That grin, of course, promptly disappears from his face when the nurse returns with her arms full of peroxide and bandages (he remembers the initial sting of the disinfectant and immediately thinks, _oh god, not again_), sits down on the edge of his bed, and demands to know what happened.

Before John can even open his mouth, Sherlock sits all the way up in his cot and says, "Well, I _probably_should have known better than to dare him to walk down a flight of stairs with his eyes closed and a glass of water balanced on his head…"

The nurse is so busy screaming at them (_too right you should have known better Holmes I thought you were supposed to be a genius and Watson everyone says you're so levelheaded what on earth were you thinking you could have been killed_) that it doesn't even occur to her to ask how a flight of stairs managed to black both John's eyes.

They spend the night in the infirmary, which John would ordinarily object to except Sherlock keeps him up half the night whispering to him from his bed. And that should be annoying, but instead it's just kind of sweet and comforting and above all _distracting_ from the pain he's in and the despair that threatens to overwhelm him whenever he remembers what the nurse told him.

("Cracked ribs," she tuts when she nearly reduces him to tears by pressing down on them. "And God only knows _why_ you've no internal bleeding from the fall you took. No physical activity for at least three weeks, Watson."

"But-" he starts to protest, but she silences him with a stern look.

"Be grateful that your ribs are the _only_ bones you broke, Mr. Watson," she snaps.

"But," he tries again, "What about football?"

"They'll just have to manage without you," she informs him coldly, getting up and making her way back towards her desk. "And don't think you can wiggle your way out of this," she adds over her shoulder. "I'm writing a note to your coach right now."

He flops down onto his cot as violently as his throbbing torso will allow, because _three weeks without football_. The season will nearly be over by the time he's healed, and what the_hell _is supposed to do with himself until then?)

Half of him (three quarters, if he's being honest with himself) wants desperately to climb into Sherlock's bed—not even to do anything, just to lie there close to him and brush up against those bony limbs and feel the other boy's body heat. But the other quarter of his brain is full of objections: what if the nurse comes in to check on them, what if they fall asleep that way and she finds them in the morning, and anyway what on _earth_ would Sherlock say? Besides, despite the ice pack he's got pressed against them, his ribs ache like hell and movement is kind of unfathomable at the moment.

And so he wakes up alone in bed, but when he looks over at Sherlock the pale boy smiles at him so warmly that he can almost forget that he's so sore that it practically hurts to_breathe_.

After the nurse discharges them, when they're alone in the dim, early morning hallway, Sherlock reaches over and squeezes John's hand, very gently and far too briefly for his taste. Once he lets go, they walk to breakfast without saying a word. Still, the very memory of it is enough to keep a faint smile on John's face throughout the whole day.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> A bit of a better way to end than the last chapter, I hope! Once again, sorry this took so long, but leave me reviews if you please!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter the Tenth**

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><p>Three days later, Anderson gets expelled. Somehow, his hall director manages to stumble upon the massive stash of weed he keeps hidden under his mattress—not to mention the fairly extensive collection of Japanese tentacle porn (pages of which mysteriously appear throughout the school, taped to bulletin boards and bathroom stalls so that the whole world can see just how sick this guy is). Needless to say, by the end of the week he's gone, slunk shamefully back to the family mansion in Sheffield or wherever the hell it is. John's just relieved that he doesn't have to see the stupid bastard grinning at him every time he passes him in the hallway.<p>

Sherlock, oddly enough, doesn't say a single word about it. John doesn't ask, but that day he does catch himself smiling at his boyfriend a bit more often than usual.

But aside from that, not much changes. Sherlock takes to squeezing John's hand—always warmly, always briefly—every once in a while when John seems a bit down (and honestly, more gratifying than the physical contact is the reassurance that Sherlock's _paying attention_, that he cares about how he feels), and he even lets John hug him once or twice in the safety of his own room. Once, they actually hold hands all the way from one end of a hallway to the other before Sherlock dashes off to class, head ducked low in a futile attempt to hide the pink edging its way into his cheeks.

Strangely enough, John isn't frustrated. Dating—if that's what they're doing, considering they haven't been on a single date and John hardly dares to put an actual name to what they've got going—Sherlock is an entirely new experience, and not just because of the obvious fact of the matching genitalia. With Sarah it was…well, different.

They first kissed at a party, before they'd even agreed on, in Sherlock's words, mutual affection and attraction. Sarah was pretty, confident, and experienced, and John could barely stammer out a sentence (something dreadfully moronic along the lines of _I think you're really pretty_ that makes him cringe even now). Fortunately, she kissed him before he could make too much more of a fool of himself by actually attempting to converse with her, and…well, he could taste the faint tang of alcohol on her tongue but he was too dumbfounded to even _think_ of objecting. Besides, later that night when he asked her to a movie, she agreed. Five days later it was Facebook official, and Harry was giving him a vicious noogie and exclaiming over what a 'cute little straight boy' he was (the significance of which he didn't quite understand until later).

If only she could see her cute little straight brother agonizing over how best to go about his brand-new relationship with another bloke. Somehow, he thinks she wouldn't be all that surprised.

The fact of the matter is that now, the tables have turned. All of a sudden, _John_ is the experienced, well-socialized half of the couple (_couple_, god, they're actually a _couple_ now, and it still blows his mind every time he thinks of it). And the other half is…well, a secretive, devastatingly brilliant, infuriatingly attractive, unfathomably wealthy boy genius whom John has at various times privately diagnosed as bipolar, autistic, and sociopathic.

And John has absolutely no idea what to do. Yes, he's the well-socialized one, yes, he's the experienced one, but he wouldn't exactly nominate himself the dominant personality of the partnership. Besides, he's deadly afraid of somehow fucking up, of being too pushy, of wanting to move too fast, of frightening Sherlock off and becoming just another reason for him to give up on the human race.

So he waits and watches and tries desperately to feel for the moments when it feels right to touch Sherlock, to bump their shoulders together or lean back against those bony legs when he's sitting on the floor and Sherlock's perched, as usual, on the windowsill. One time, when they're walking down an otherwise deserted hallway (Sherlock has a penchant for wandering the castle at odd hours, and John of course indulges him), John hooks his pinky finger into Sherlock's trouser pocket and keeps it there in a gesture so gently possessive that when Sherlock looks down at him, his expression is about as close to pure delight as it will ever get. It's moments like this that make John dare to think that maybe, just maybe, he's getting somewhere.

They start going on long walks along the cliffs (John figures Sherlock must be failing physical education by now, though what with the smoking and the ankle and the not eating he's not entirely sure that he'd do much better even if he did actually show up). Sometimes they talk, but more often than not they just wander, and although he would never admit it, John is more than content to trail along beside Sherlock and just look at him with his hair blown back by the wind and his cheeks ruddy from the cold and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth (and the only thing that John hates more than the fact that Sherlock smokes is how bloody dashing he looks doing it).

Sometimes, when John's ribs are bothering him or Sherlock's ankle aches a bit (he's finally rid himself of his boot and crutches, but the ghost of the fracture still pains him whenever there's rain in the air), they sit at the cliff's edge, shoulders just touching and feet dangling out into oblivion. Privately, John suspects it's a really terrible idea, but he gets such a rush out of it that he can't quite bring himself to object.

It's one of these particular times that it happens. Sherlock's been acting odd all day, but John knows for certain that something's wrong when they sit down in the damp grass at the edge of the cliff and he doesn't make the slightest move towards his cigarettes. He always smokes out here—_always._ Still, John knows better than to push; Sherlock will talk when he's ready. They sit in silence for quite a while, and John goes into a bit of a trance, staring out to sea and watching the white-crested waves speed relentlessly towards the shore.

And then, out of the blue, Sherlock says, "You know, I've never kissed anyone."

It takes a moment or two for John to snap out of it and come back to earth, but when he does, his breath kind of catches in his throat for a moment because _what did he just say_? When he looks over, Sherlock's gone kind of small and hunched, ruthlessly tearing at blades of grass with his restless fingers and very carefully not meeting John's eyes.

"Y-you haven't?" John asks, and god he's stupid, _so bloody stupid_ but to be quite frank his brain has ground to a complete halt because unless he's completely incapable of processing verbal cues, it seems to him that _this is it_, this is the moment he's been watching and waiting for but now that it's come he's completely paralyzed.

"Are you surprised?" Sherlock rips up a clump of grass like it's done him a serious personal injury. "I barely speak to anyone, John, let alone engage in casual lip-locking."

"Yeah, but I'd always sort of figured-" John cuts himself off with a shrug, and oh god his heart is going to break through his ribs at any moment now. "Y'know, at some party or something, with the…y'know, the drugs or something…"

"John." Finally, Sherlock looks up, and when his eyes meet John's the bitterness there is almost overwhelming. "Do I really seem like the sort who does drugs at parties?"

Biting his lip, John does his absolute best to push away the mental image of Sherlock doing solitary lines in an enormous, empty bedroom, tries to ignore the feeling of dread that the very idea conjures up in his stomach because what if something happened, what if something went wrong and there was no one there to help? Clearly, his pity is too obvious on his face, because in a moment Sherlock turns away and goes back to picking at the grass, shoulders more hunched than before.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, and when the boy doesn't look up he says it again, but louder this time and with less of that irritating wobble in his voice. "Sherlock. Look at me, please."

Something about that is right, because in an instant Sherlock has raised his head and those too-blue eyes are fixed on John and for a second John forgets who he is and what he's doing because _dear god_ how did he _ever_ get to be with someone so bloody gorgeous? Because Sherlock is dark-haired and blue-eyed and practically male model material, and John is…well, John, with dishwater hair that never lies flat and dull grayish eyes and a funny sort of nose and weird ears and-

"John?" He comes back to Planet Earth to find Sherlock staring at him, eyebrows raised to somewhere between confusion and amusement.

"Sorry," he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to force himself to _pull it together, for god's sake what is the matter with you_. "Got a bit, um…sorry, yeah, um." _What are coherent sentences?_ he thinks bitterly, and god, why does Sherlock even put up with him?

Sherlock cocks his head at him (and _Christ_ he's so damn adorable when he's confused) and says, "You're nervous."

"No shit, Sherlock," John huffs, shoving his hands into his armpits and trying to will the red out of his cheeks.

"I've upset you," Sherlock says quietly, and John can't help but stare at him because _what_?

"No," he says hastily, shaking his head fervently. "No, no, not at all. You didn't—I'm not—oh, _Christ_." His head drops back and he stares hopelessly up at the sky, as if begging for a bit of divine intervention so he can pull himself the _fuck_ together and just kiss his boyfriend already.

"But something is clearly wrong," Sherlock says slowly, and John can feel those eyes on him but he doesn't dare look, doesn't dare take his gaze off the flat gray clouds overhead. "Your sentences are disjointed, your arms are folded in a clearly protective position, and you won't meet my eyes…are you hiding something?" Before John can ask him what the _fuck_ he could _possibly_ hide from him, Sherlock goes on, "No, no, that's wrong. You're…anticipating something. Preemptive anxiety, clearly. You're… trying to work up the nerve to say something, perhaps. But what?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," John snaps, and leans over and kisses him.

It's a bit awkward, slightly rushed and involving a bit more nose and teeth than John would've liked, but more important than that is the fact that he's _actually kissing Sherlock_ and he's really sort of surprised by how _good_ it feels. Those wide, pale lips are just as soft as they look, and really quite warm and pliant and…well, unmoving. That's a bit odd, to be sure. And then John realizes that Sherlock is entirely frozen, not in shock, but because he doesn't know what to do.

After a moment or two, John decides that this is going about as well as kissing a wall and pulls away. The instant that Sherlock catches sight of his expression, the pale boy squeezes his eyes shut, and dear god, is he actually _embarrassed_?

"I've done something wrong," Sherlock murmurs through his teeth, cringing almost as if he expects John to punch him or something. "I'm sorry. I told you, John, I-"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, it's okay," John says gently, shaking his head with a smile. And then, without quite meaning to, he puts one hand to the side of Sherlock's face, molding his fingers around one knife-sharp cheekbone and making those bright eyes snap open in shock. "Just…relax, okay? It's alright. Come here."

Reluctantly, the taller boy leans back towards John, who carefully takes his face in both hands and kisses him again, tilting his head slightly so that their mouths fit together a bit better. And Sherlock's still stiff and frightened under his touch, but there's less nose-mashing this time, and he thinks maybe he feels Sherlock soften a little bit into the kiss.

After a moment, he pulls away just the slightest bit so that his lips just barely brush Sherlock's when he says, "So, you can turn your head a bit this way-" he nudges Sherlock's jaw in the opposite direction from his own, "-And we'll try again." They do, and this time their lips seal together effortlessly, until John pulls away with a faint noise of appreciation.

"Mm. Better?"

John can't quite suppress a smile as Sherlock nods fervently. But those dark brows quickly draw together as he asks, "But…I'm afraid I don't entirely see the point. It's…nice, but what else is there to do? Do people sit about with their lips pressed together for minutes on end?"

Stifling another chuckle, John shakes his head and says, "Oh, there's _lots_ more to do, believe me. But we'll start slow, okay?"

"Slowly," Sherlock corrects him, but there's a smile behind it, so John's not too offended. Besides, it's really horribly distracting, the way that those blue eyes are focused on John like he's the only other soul on this earth, like he's new and strange and fascinating and _beautiful_, which sort of makes him nervous but mostly just makes him draw Sherlock's face closer to his and kiss him again. Only this time he moves his lips, gently, to capture and release Sherlock's only to recapture them again, and after a moment Sherlock starts to copy him and _oh god_ it's working. When John tilts his head to the other side, Sherlock follows suit in the opposite direction, and when John pulls away they're both smiling a little.

"So, there's that," John murmurs, a little breathless. "And then there's this," he adds as he slides his hands from Sherlock's jaw into his hair, trying not to exult _too_ much at finally being able to thread his fingers through those unruly curls and watch those eyes widen slightly as he pulls Sherlock in for another kiss. It seems that the other boy is getting the hang of it, because as his lips easily capture John's his hands slide into his cropped blond hair and John can't help but shiver because that feels _good._

"Okay," Sherlock nods as they pull apart, a faint smile of satisfaction quirking the corners of his mouth as he takes note of John's slightly more labored breathing. "I think I follow so far. What else?"

"Well, your hands can go other places," John shrugs without thinking. The moment that he actually _hears_ himself, he feels his cheeks go hot as he hastily adds, "Not, uh, not like that. Necessarily." _Oh, for the love of god, stop talking! _

Clearing his throat, he manages to compose himself enough to clarify, "I meant, uh, you know…neck, shoulders, back, waist, hips, like that." Frowning, he realizes that many of those words sound quite strange when not in relation to a girl…though he supposes that boys have waists and hips, as well. It's all very new and strange and confusing and _exciting_.

"All right," Sherlock nods again, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he lets his hands slip out of John's hair and glide downwards—John's breath hitches slightly as his mind cries _ohgodohgod what is he doing_—and come to rest at John's, well, waist. _Guess I do have one, _he thinks faintly, but he's kind of distracted by the feeling of Sherlock's hands on him, warm and gentle but also somehow _possessive_, and the very idea makes him want to lean up and kiss Sherlock yet again but this time Sherlock leans down and beats him to it.

And this time it's perfect, because Sherlock seems relaxed and happy and John, for one, is absolutely overjoyed to be able to run his fingers through that hair and kiss those lips and oh god just _everything_. It's not exactly the best kiss he's ever had, in terms of the simple mechanics at least—there's a bit of fumbling and teeth-clacking but honestly none of that matters because it's _Sherlock_ he's kissing, and he's so astounded by that fact that he hardly even notices when he opens his mouth slightly to swipe his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip—that is, until Sherlock jumps about a foot into the air and pulls away so fast that John practically falls off the cliff.

"Sorry," they say simultaneously, and John would laugh except Sherlock quickly adds, "You didn't warn me."

"Sorry," John repeats, though now there's a chuckle half-hidden in the word. And somewhere deep down, he thinks maybe he shouldn't be laughing, that he should be freaking the _fuck_ out because he just frightened Sherlock away, but there's a curiosity flickering in those blue eyes that keeps him calm. "Um, got a little…caught up there. Didn't mean to, uh, startle you."

"It felt good," Sherlock mumbles, and instantly his eyes widen in a clear _oh fuck did I really say that out loud_ expression, and John realizes that he really kind of enjoys it when Sherlock's face is an open book. _This is what it must feel like to be him,_ he thinks absently.

"I'm glad," John grins, and after a moment Sherlock's deer-in-headlights expression disappears, to be replaced by a slow, shy sort of smile that shouldn't really be that sexy but burns straight into the pit of John's stomach anyway.

"Well, then," Sherlock says softly, and somehow they've gotten much closer and he can feel Sherlock's voice vibrating through his own chest, which is pretty much sending an express train of warmth straight to his groin. "Consider me, erm…warned."

This time, Sherlock wastes no time in sliding his tongue along John's lower lip, which John quickly parts from his upper to open his mouth up to Sherlock. Cautiously, Sherlock's tongue dips into John's mouth, only to retreat in order to allow John to return the favor. For his part, John takes his time, trailing his tongue over Sherlock's and tracing the inside edges of his teeth. To his delight, the other boy groans quietly and pulls him still closer, until they're flush against each other and oh god this is fantastic. What's even more fantastic is the embarrassed twist that Sherlock's mouth takes on when he realizes his involuntary action—no, scratch that, what's _actually_ more fantastic is when John gets to kiss it away.

What's less than fantastic, however, is when Sherlock pulls away. Like, all the way away, so that John can't even lean up and kiss him anymore. The displeasure swelling in his chest must translate directly onto his face, because Sherlock half-smiles apologetically as he whispers, "Your next class starts in five minutes."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter the Eleventh**

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><p>Sherlock half-smiles apologetically as he whispers, "Your next class starts in five minutes."<p>

"Mm," John grunts, and he really ought to stop staring at Sherlock's mouth but he can't quite bring himself to do it. But as he watches, Sherlock's faint smile slips away, and when he raises his eyes Sherlock won't meet his gaze.

"You want to stop," John says quietly, and Sherlock sort of flinches but doesn't correct him.

"I'm sorry, John," he murmurs, and there's a kind of defeat in the slump of his shoulders that makes John's heart go small and tight as a fist in his chest. "It's not…it's not that I don't—I mean, it's all very-"

"It's okay," John interrupts him as gently as possible, stroking a mussed curl back from Sherlock's temple with one thumb. "Really, Sherlock, it's-"

"It's not that I didn't like it," Sherlock blurts out, and in his eyes there's a kind of desperation, a need for John to _understand_ that would almost be cute if it weren't quite so sad. "I just—it's all very new, you understand, and I, I need time to, to…process it. I don't mean to offend you, and we can certainly try this again later, but-"

"_Sherlock._" His hands slide out of Sherlock's hair to land on his shoulders, which he grips as firmly as he dares. "It's okay. I understand. It's alright."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something else, to clarify further, to pick apart his own fumbled words and re-explain what's already been explained, but before he can get out a word John gets to his feet and holds out his hand. When Sherlock takes it, still apparently bewildered that John isn't yelling or stomping off or hitting things, he pulls him up beside him and _doesn't let go_, retains those long, chilly fingers in his tight, warm grasp.

They walk in silence for a little while, the wind at their backs and the castle looming over their heads. Internally, John's organs are practically jumping for joy, and he could swear that he can still feel the ghost of Sherlock's lips against his. On the outside, though, he does his best to present a façade of reassuring calm, and after a few minutes Sherlock's mouth softens out of its tight, anxious line.

It's only then that John dares to ask, "It was alright, wasn't it?"

Sherlock just looks at him, and his heart leaps into his throat as he blunders on, "I mean, as kisses go I know it wasn't particularly fantastic, I mean, _I'm_ not particularly fantastic at that sort of thing, but I hope it wasn't _completely_ disappointing as a first kiss. And, like, it'll get better, y'know, and easier, and _I'll_ get better and it's really not-"

"I did say we could try again later, didn't I?" Sherlock interrupts, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

"Um, yeah." John frowns, too, because now Sherlock's got that I-am-a-space-alien-and-I-don't-understand-you-strange-humans face on and as things go John doesn't think he's being particularly mystifying at all.

Cocking his head to one side, Sherlock says, "Is it customary, then, for people to request repetitions of activities that they didn't find enjoyable?"

John blinks at him for a moment because his admittedly makeout-dazed brain takes a bit longer than usual to process. When the penny finally drops, though, a slow grin finds its way onto his face before he punches Sherlock in the arm.

Making a faint noise that anyone else might allow to be _ow_ but sort of comes out as a grunt of pain, Sherlock cradles the injured limb and demands, "What was that for?"

"You could've just _said_ that you liked it, you git," John exclaims in exasperation, but he can't stop smiling because Sherlock is such a stupid, brilliant, ridiculous, beautiful bloody idiot and he's so in love it's kind of embarrassing.

"Fine," Sherlock sniffs, rubbing his bicep. "But if you punch me again, I'll cripple you."

"Yeah?" John grins, darting away from Sherlock with the agility that makes his football coach a very happy man. "I'd like to see you try!"

"Be careful what you wish for," Sherlock cautions, but there's a smile working its way onto his face as he puts his fists up and waves them about like an old-timey boxer. John just laughs, turns on his heel, and sprints away, leaving a dumbfounded Sherlock in his wake.

"John!" he hears Sherlock shout after him, but he keeps running anyway, relishing the wind blustering through his hair and the breakneck joy bubbling up in his throat. "John, your ribs! Oh, bloody-" Sherlock breaks off, and in a moment John hears his footsteps pounding across the grass behind him. Throwing his head back, John just lets himself laugh as loudly as his chill-ragged throat can manage. Sherlock chases him all the way back up to the castle.

John arrives to his next class late and with his ribs smarting, but he can't quite bring himself to care. Lingering still in his mind is the breathless, sloppy kiss that Sherlock pressed to his wind-chapped lips when they finally collapsed, panting for breath, just inside the castle door.

The next day, John walks into his dorm room to find Lestrade sitting cross-legged on his bed, thumbing absently through a textbook and looking rather more like he's waiting for a train than studying.

"Hi," Lestrade says quickly, before John can ask what on _earth_ he's doing on his bed when there's a perfectly good one on the other side of the room that actually belongs to him. All things considered, though, Lestrade is a pretty good roommate, and since John really has no interest in starting trouble with him, he decides to hold off on asking any questions for the moment.

"Look, um," Lestrade's saying, letting the textbook in his lap snap shut, "I wanted to ask…that is, I've, erm…I've heard, like, some…stuff…" Clearing his throat, he reaches up to scratch the back of his head with one hand, looking the picture of awkwardness. And deep down, John's got a bad feeling that he knows what this is all about, but he can't bring himself to put Lestrade out of his misery and just say it himself.

Fortunately, Lestrade finally manages to bring himself to the point: "Look, I just…I wanted to ask _you_, to be sure…are you…gay or something?"

"Um," John says eventually, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders almost up to his ears. "Probably more like the…something bit? I mean, I, I've had a girlfriend, but I also…" He sighs, finally admitting defeat. "I mean, I'm not straight, if that's what you're asking."

"Right," Lestrade nods, fiddling with one of the worn corners of his textbook and not meeting John's eyes.

"Is…that a problem?" John asks quietly, his heart plummeting into his stomach because oh god _no_, not Lestrade, please not Lestrade. To be quite honest, aside from a few other blokes on the football team, Lestrade is his only non-Sherlock friend, and that's a really valuable thing. Besides, he _likes_ Lestrade, likes his honesty and sarcasm and his straight-forwardness, which can be astonishingly refreshing after Sherlock.

"No!" Lestrade replies hastily, finally meeting looking up at John with wide-open, earnest eyes. "No. Not…not a problem at all. Really, not a big deal in the least. But, uh…" He trails off as his gaze slips back towards his own lap. "You don't, uh…that is…you're not, erm…you're not interested in…" One hand makes an involuntary sort of motion towards himself, and with horror John realizes what he's getting at.

"No, no," he says as quickly as possible, shaking his head vehemently. "No, god no."

When Lestrade looks up, the relief on his face is as clear as day, and he's almost laughing as he says, "Yeah, I kind of figured not, what with Sherlock and all…"

"How d'you-" John blurts out, and by the time he realizes what he's saying it's too late to stop himself.

This time, Lestrade really does laugh. "C'mon, mate. Even if I hadn't heard the rumors, well…I'm your roommate. I know these things. Look, really it's not a problem. It's fine, it's great. I just wanted to make sure we were clear."

"Right, okay," John nods. There's a pause, and then he clears his throat and says, "So, um. Could I have my bed back now?"

"Oh! Right." Unfolding his legs, Lestrade gets hastily to his feet, but pauses to look carefully at John. "John. Don't worry about it. I can see you worrying and you shouldn't. Really, mate, it's all fine."

"Thanks," John mumbles, and in spite of the lingering awkwardness and the anxiety swelling in the back of his mind (_rumors what rumors oh god Anderson must have told more people oh Christ everyone probably knows no one is ever going to leave us alone_), he can't help but smile.

After a little over two weeks (16 days, not that he's been counting or anything) without football, John ventures into the locker room. He goes to every practice, of course, partially to support his teammates and mitigate his coach's rage at having one of his best defenders out of commission because of a 'bloody idiotic dare,' but partially because he doesn't quite know what to do with himself otherwise. It's endlessly frustrating, of course, to sit on the sidelines and watch everyone practice and see the gap where he should be, where _he could've blocked that_, _he could've saved that_, _he could've kept that in bounds_. But he's sort of become the team's unofficial manager-slash-water boy, and he's quite happy to do whatever he can to help, whether that means drawing play diagrams or refilling the water cooler.

He makes this particular trip to the locker room (his first in sixteen days) as a part of his search for his trainers, which have mysteriously disappeared. He's doing his best to find them himself before having to enlist Sherlock, who will inevitably find them within moments and make John feel like an idiot in the process. And so after practice one day, he goes in to check his locker in the rather empty hope that they might be there. Unsurprisingly, they're not.

What _is_ surprising is when he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns round to see Mike Stamford, the team captain, regarding him with an unusual sort of half-serious, half-uneasy expression on his normally good-natured face.

"What's up, Mike?" John asks, forcing a mask of ease onto his face and into his voice despite the fact that he's starting to feel faintly nauseous.

"Look, Watson," Stamford begins carefully, and with a touch of horror John realizes that the entire team has assembled around them, "The guys and I were talking, and…well, we wanted to let you know that, that…despite any, y'know, rumors and things that might be going round…well, we're all your mates, y'know, and we're all behind you. One hundred percent and all that."

"I—wait, what?" John blinks slowly at Stamford, and _god_ he must look completely brain-dead right now but he doesn't even care because he's so bloody _confused_.

"What Mike's trying to say," Seb Wilkes, the goalkeeper, pipes up from behind the captain's left shoulder, "Is that we don't care if you're queer."

"Yeah, like," Dimmock, another defender, chimes in, "We don't much like that Holmes bloke, but we like you, so we don't really mind, do we?"

"You're a damn good footballer, Watson," Stamford says firmly, clapping his hand onto John's shoulder a bit more heavily than before. "That's all that matters to us. If anyone ever gives you trouble, you let us know, alright?"

"Alright," John manages weakly, and he would never admit it but his knees have pretty much turned into pudding with relief.

"Just don't sneak any looks at me in the shower, alright?" Stamford adds with a broad grin, and John's heart plummets into the pit of his stomach before he realizes that _oh god he's joking that is so bloody tasteless but thank god it's just a joke_.

"Believe me, mate," John chuckles, and this time he doesn't have to force the smile on his face, "I haven't got the _slightest_ interest in seeing you in the shower."

Relief floods through him as everyone in the room laughs, and Stamford grins even more widely and says _that's what I thought_ and gives John one final, companionable cuff on the shoulder before heading off, ironically enough, to the showers. As John makes his way out of the locker room, it seems like every guy on the team gives him a reassuring nod or smile or pat on the back, and by the time he reaches the door he's practically walking on air. When he finds Sherlock skulking in one corner of the common room, the taller boy raises an eyebrow at him and asks what on _earth_ happened because he's smiling like someone hit him over the head with something sizeable and dense. John just smirks and says _oh,_ _nothing_, but he definitely kisses Sherlock a little more fiercely than usual that night before they part for bed.

One night at dinner, in the midst of yet another heated argument with Sherlock about the virtues of actually _eating something for a change you crazy bastard for fuck's sake you're going to shrivel up and blow away_, John looks up out of the corner of his eye and sees Jim Moriarty. Moreover, he sees Jim Moriarty _walking towards him_, and the hatred on John's face is so blatant that Sherlock twists around in his seat to see what he's looking at.

To John's surprise, though, Sherlock smiles—well, at least removes the usual expression of irritation he reserves for everyone who isn't John—at the dark-haired little first-year, who smiles back with a toothy grin that makes all the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end.

"Sherlock!" At that high-pitched voice, heavily cloaked in its Irish accent, every muscle in John's body tenses, and oh, god, no, he's coming over to their table and grinning and greeting John for all the world like he's not the reason he got his lights punched out by a bunch of half-witted thugs.

"Hi, John!" Jim chirps, and is it bad that John has a terrible urge to just _disappear_, to sink into the ground or leap out of his chair and run for it or just be _anywhere_ but here. "Your face is healing up nicely."

"Mm," John grunts through clenched teeth, leaning over his plate of spaghetti so that he won't have to look at Jim's stupid, smirking, _gloating_ face that so clearly knows what it's done.

But Sherlock…shit, Sherlock _doesn't_ know, and he shoots John a baffled look as he nods and says, "Yes, he's doing quite well."

"Still drinking out of glasses, I see," Jim observes lightly, and there's a loud bang and for a moment John doesn't understand why everyone's staring at him until he realizes that somehow he's on his feet, his fork slammed down on the table and his eyes doing their best to burn holes in Jim's ever-innocent face.

"Temper, temper," Jim chastises him, his smirk edging into downright cruelty as he backs slowly away from the table. "By the way, Johnny, darling…found your trainers yet?"

The table legs actually screech against the floor as John does his absolute best to leap straight through it towards Jim's retreating, smirking face. As the first-year turns round and trips gaily away, John seriously considers climbing over the damn table, jumping the kid, and making him understand what it's like to get beaten senseless, understand _what he did_, understand the pain his stupid gossip caused.

Instead, he lowers himself slowly into his chair, fuming. Beside him, Sherlock is looking from Jim's retreating back to John's tightrope-taut shoulders with an expression that says _if this isn't explained to me in the next four seconds someone is going to get hurt_.

That someone is not, apparently, going to be John, because after a few moments of tense, tense silence, Sherlock clears his throat and says, "Well. That was quite a performance."

John grunts noncommittally and tries to resume eating his spaghetti. He is stymied in this attempt, however, by the facts that A, his hands are shaking too violently to control, and B, he actually _bent_ the tines on his fork and _Jesus_ that Moriarty kid gets to him way too easily.

And then Sherlock says, "He told me where you were, you know. After Anderson…after Anderson did, did that…that thing. That he did. Jim saw them running behind the refectory and told me where you were."

That's right about when John's stomach flips upside down and lands somewhere in the vicinity of his knees because _wait, what? _His mind goes so, so blank that he can't even stop himself from blurting out, "Jim told Anderson about finding us in the closet."

If he weren't so caught up in his own personal whirlwind of shock and fury, he would probably feel really, really bad for what that sentence does to Sherlock's face. Because what it does is make his eyes go sort of wide and still, and John can just _see_ the guilt crystallizing there like ice.

Almost without moving, almost without _blinking_, Sherlock says, "He stole the test. Jim. He was—he did it. He stole it, and—oh. _Oh._" His chair skitters backwards across the floor as he gets to his feet all at once, and John can just _see_ the ideas whizzing back and forth underneath that ridiculous nest of hair. He's never witnessed an epiphany before, but he's pretty sure that this is it.

"I need to—I need to think," Sherlock says all in a rush, and without thinking John gets to his feet, as well. "I need to _walk_."

He doesn't need to specify, because by now they've got this whole wordless communication thing down to a science, and within moments they're outside in the cold and heading out towards the cliffs at top Sherlock-stride speed.

Sherlock talks even faster than he walks, hands flying through the air as he exclaims, "Stupid, stupid, _god,_ I was so _stupid_! How could I not see it? It was him all along—it's all been him! Of course!"

"Sherlock," John says quietly, and he doesn't have to speak another word before Sherlock launches headlong into his explanation.

"Think back to that day in the closet," he begins hurriedly (and is it just John, or is there definitely a faint flush creeping into those fine-boned cheeks?). "You knocked over that stack of buckets just minutes after Davies ended his conversation with the test thief. Mere moments later, Jim opens the closet door. He would have to have been close to the door of his dorm room to even _hear_ that clatter, let alone come out and open the door so quickly. And think about what he asked us."

Frowning, John tries to think back, tries to push past the sting of the bucket handles and the mad thunder of his heart to what actually happened, and—_oh._

"_How long were you in there?" _is what Jim asked. And now John understands that strange, desperate look in the first-year's eyes because he _needed_ to know, _needed_ to make sure—

"He wanted to know how long we'd been in there," Sherlock explains breathlessly (and John would be a little worried about how excited he's getting over this, except it's sort of cute and if he's being honest he's kind of thrilled, too), "Because he needed to make sure that we hadn't overheard."

And it makes sense, it _all makes sense_, from the strange abruptness of the question to the look that passed over that pale little face ever so briefly when Sherlock lied and said _oh, not long_: relief, pure and beatific. The relief of someone who's just gotten away with it.

"He thought he'd pulled it off," John says slowly, and there's something about the way that Sherlock's eyes are fixed on him that make him desperately, _desperately_ want to be right. "But then…he finds the teachers waiting for him behind the refectory and realizes we're onto him. So…so, he tells Anderson about what he saw in the closet."

"I should have _known_ that Anderson wasn't smart enough to try and scare you away from me," Sherlock huffs, shaking his head in disgust. "It was Jim manipulating him the whole time. He plants the idea that we're queer in Anderson's empty little head, and all of a sudden he starts seeing it everywhere. His mind twists the facts to suit his theory, and before long he whips himself into such a frenzy that he goes after the easiest target."

"Me," John says faintly, and Sherlock's head whips around to look at him, eyes darkening with the subtlest hint of…something, something that could be guilt or anger or a million other things, how the fuck should John know?

"I phrased that incorrectly," Sherlock says gently, and John feels his jaw clench because he doesn't need his _pity_, doesn't need Sherlock to tiptoe around the fact that John _is _the weaker half, that he got pummeled senseless where Sherlock would have undoubtedly talked his brilliant way to safety.

"I should have said…_unknown_ target," Sherlock explains, and John can just _feel_ those eyes burning into the side of his face, but all he can do is stare straight ahead and just _walk_, just keep moving until the boiling tension that Jim unleashed inside him can evaporate into the freezing air. "Anderson had previous experience with me and found me…unresponsive to his particular tactics of persuasion. But he knew nothing about you or how you would react, therefore making you the most logical target—_oh. _Oh, he's _clever_. Very clever."

"Anderson?" John raises an eyebrow. "Just a moment ago you were saying-"

"No, _Jim_," Sherlock breathes, and John wonders if it should worry him that Sherlock didn't scoff at his thickness. "Oh, _very_ clever. He _knew_ Anderson would go after you—probably even helped engineer the whole thing. Jim spots you going out behind the refectory, and oh, it's just _poetic_ that he get his revenge in the same place where he was nearly caught. So he summons his cronies, and off trots Anderson, _still_ thinking that the whole thing is his idea!"

"Don't see what's so clever about manipulating a second-rate thug," John grunts, but Sherlock shakes his head, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully into the fog rising off the sea in the distance.

"No, what's clever is how he manipulated _me_," Sherlock murmurs. When John looks up at him questioningly, a wild sort of light blooms in his eyes as he cries, "Think about it! As soon as Anderson and co. go off to beat you up, what's the first thing Jim does? He finds me and tips me off—too late for me to stop them, but just soon enough to ensure that I'd find you in the worst possible state. He _knew_ that you, being you, would try and clean yourself up before going off to find me, in order to present a less pitiful appearance. But by ensuring that I would find you before you could do so, he added a whole other layer to his plan.

"As I initially surmised, he was trying to scare you away from me. That much is simple. But what's _clever_ is that he gave himself a backup plan in case you turned out to be as loyal as you did: me. He _wanted_ me to see you beaten and bloodied so that I would do exactly what I did-"

"Tell me to piss off for my own safety," John fills in, wide eyes fixed on Sherlock because _god_ he's beautiful when he's triumphant like this.

"Clearly, he underestimated your loyalty and my recklessness," Sherlock chuckles, and there's something about the way he smiles at John that makes a sort of warmth spring up in his chest, spreading outwards around his ribs and displacing that hateful, trigger-sharp anxiety.

"You're brilliant," John marvels, and it's only when Sherlock's eyebrows shoot halfway to his hairline that he realizes that he actually just kind of said that aloud.

Surprisingly, though, the first word out of Sherlock's mouth is: "Really?"

It takes John a moment or two to formulate his reply, because really, what on earth do you say to a genius who's just revealed one of the few hairline fractures in his self-confidence? Nothing, it turns out; instead, John just reaches up, grabs Sherlock by the lapels, and pulls him down into what he thought was going to be a quick, warm kiss.

Several minutes later, Sherlock pulls back and manages to gasp, "J-john?"

"Sorry," John says breathlessly, pressing his face into the rough wool of Sherlock's overcoat and breathing in the warm, sheepy smell. "I got—well, you're _really_ attractive when you deduce."

There's a brief pause, and then thin, strong arms enfold John as Sherlock chuckles, "I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you."

That night, they don't say another word about Jim Moriarty, which is _just_ fine by John.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Wow, so...it's been a really long time. For various reasons I haven't been able to update (stupid RL getting in the way), but now I'm back! Hope you all remember what's happening and enjoyed the extra long chapter. I've got lots more in store! 3


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